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THE  BAILIFF  OF  TEWKESBURY. 


THE 

BAIL1FFOFTEWKESBURY, 


(  .  K.  D.PHKLI'S    AM.    LKKJH    NORTH. 
Jlbstrateb. 


CINCINNATI. 
TIIK  KDITOH  I'l   I?LISHJ\(i  CO. 

IS!  IS. 

^£^itto^. 


COPYRIGHTKD 

c.  E.  i).  PHKLPS  AND  LKKJII  NORTH. 

1898. 


CONTENTS. 

Page. 
CHAITKR  I. 5 

"  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison?" 
CHAITKK  II 12 

"Where  should  a  father  be  so  well 
As  in  the  bosom  of  his  family?  " 

ClIAI'TKK    III 17 

"  Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority.'' 

Cll.UTr.K    IV.  .          .          .          .          .          .          .23 

"  The  fountains  of  my  daily  life 
Are  through  thy  friendship  fair." 


"  The  crooked  stick  and  the  grey  goose  wing, 
Without  them  England  were  hut  a  fling." 

ClIAl'TI-.K     VI 36 

"  A  man  at  arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 
And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  old  age's  alms." 

CHAITI  K  VII 41 

"'I  lius  shall  it  he  done  unto  the  man 
Whom  the  king  delighteth  to  honor." 

ClIAITI  K  VIII .  .46 

"The  hitter  arrow  leaped  forth,  thirsting  to  drink  blood." 


11  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
CHAPTER  IX 51 

"  The  daily  waiting  on  the  fractious  chair, 
The  nightly  vigil  by  the  feverish  bed." 

CHAPTER  X 59 

"  Slightit  love  is  sriir  to  bide." 

CHAPTER  XI 64 

"Where  may  she  wan-,!er  now,  whither  betake  her." 

CHAPTER  XII 70 

"  Come,  Sir,  throw  us  that  you  have  about  you." 

CHAPTER  XIII. 79 

"  But  still  he  bet  and  bounst  upon  the  dore, 
And  at  the  portals  thondred  hideously, 
That  all  the  peece  he  shaked  from  the  flore." 

CHAPTER  XIV 91 

"  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !   Sound  cause  to  sleep  hast  thou." 

CHATTER  XV 101 

"  In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground." 

CHAPTER  XVI no 

"Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies, 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken." 

CHAPTER  XVII 118 

"  The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
In  which  I  told  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own." 

CHAPTER  XVIII 126 

"  And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain." 


CONTENTS.  Ill 

Page. 

CHAITKR  XIX 133 

"  I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million." 

CHAPTER  XX.     . 143 

"  So  long  as  thou  doest  well  unto  thyself, 
Men  will  speak  good  of  thee.'' 

CHAPTER  XXI 152 

"The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set, 

Mayst  hear  the  merry  din."  i 

CHAPTER  XXII.  . 165 

"  lie  kepte  liis  pacient  a  ful  gret  del 
In  houres  by  his  magik  natural. " 

CHAPTER  XXII 1 175 

"  Death  doth  ride 
Kver  at  the  horseman's  side." 

CHAPTER  XXIV 181 

"'The  winter  snow  and  hail  did  never  come  so  thick 
As  on  the  houses'  sides  the  bearded  arrows  stick." 

CHAPTER  XXV. 191 

"And  \\hen  life's  sweet  fable  ends, 
Soul  and  body  part  like  friends." 

CHAPTER   XKXYI 195 

"  Cras  ingens  iterabimus  ajquor." 


THE  BAILIFF  OF  TEWKESBURY. 

CHAPTKR    I. 

'•(.'ome,  shall  we  i;o  and  kill  us  venison?"  —  SiiAKKsrKARE. 

Tr  was  about  eight  o'clock  on  a  bright  cool 
October  evening  some  three  hundred  years  ago. 
The  moon,  nearly  at  the  full,  was  cleaving  her  way 
upward  through  a  shell  of  dappled  clouds,  and 
throwing  tree-shadows  across  the  glades  of  a  park 
in  mid- England.  T\vo  young  men  were  seated  on 
the  turf  beside  a  recently  felled  log,  not  upon  it, 
but  crouched  in  its  shade,  and  still  further  screened 
by  the  long  fan-like  limb  of  a  young  beech  which 
spread  directly  over  their  heads.  As  far  as  their 
forms  could  be  distinguished,  they  were  both 
youths  of  twenty  or  thereabouts  :  one,  a  stout 
clownish  fellow  in  leather  jerkin,  leggings  and 
heavy  clouted  shoes.  Coiled  round  his  arm  were 
two  or  three  horse-hair  nooses,  and  a  newly-killed 
hare  lay  at  his  side. 

The  other,  of  slighter  build,  wore  the  doublet, 
hose,  and  boots  of  a  gentleman,  though  daylight 
would  have  shown  them  grievously  soiled  and 
tattered.  Over  this  array,  either  for  the  sake  of 
warmth  or  parti;.!  disguise,  he  had  huddled  a  rough 
frie/e  jacket.  Apparently,  he  was  less  used  to 
weather  than  his  companion,  for  he  fidgeted 
about,  rubbing  his  hands,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
and  beating  his  feet  on  the  ground.  At  length  he 
rose  and  began  swinging  his  arms,  whereat  the 
leather-clad  vouth  broke  silence. 


THE    IUII.IFF    OF    TFAVKF.SlirRY. 


"Thee'd  best  keep  close,  Joe  Tuff,"  said  he,  in 
drawling  dialect.  "  Keeper'll  see  thee,  sure  as 
death." 

"And  what  care  I?"   replied  Tuff,  angrily,  after 
a  quick    stealthy    lock    around.     "  This    pestilent 
damp  has  crept  into  my  very  bones.     And  I'll  tell 
thee     somewhat    more,    Hewlett,"    he    went     on. 
"  First,    if  the  keeper  should  see 
me,  a  word  to  S  r  Thomas   would 
set  all  right ;  and  in  the  next  place 
I'll  be  called  Master  Tuff,   an'  it 
like  ye.      If  I  hare  come   out  for 
a  run  with  you  and  your  company, 
it  makes  me  not  <•/  you.      As  the 
Latin  poet  says,    'Odi  profanum 
vulgus.'  " 

"Thou  mayst  die  at  Farnum 
village,  for  all  I  care,"  returned 
the  other  :  "  Tis  naught  to  me  ; 
and  'tis  naught  to  me  either  how 
easy  thou  canst  get  off  the  gaol  or 
the  stocks  if  the  keepers  take  thee  ; 
only,  an'  thou's  so  great  wi'  Sir 
Tummas,  I  hope  thee'll  speak  a 
good  word  for  us.  But  call  thee 
Measter  !  Thee  that  ran  ragged 
wi'  me  about  Shottery  village,  till 
Sir  Tummas  took  thee  up,  and 
put  thee  to  school,  and  made  thee 
his  clerk  !  Thee,  that's  wearing  t'  young  squire's 
cast  cloathes  at  this  minute,  I'll  lay  a  wager  !  Noa, 
noa,  we'll  ha'  no  meastering  here." 

Tuff  scowled  malignantly,  clenching  his  fist  :  but 
as  Hewlett  sat  quite  unmoved,  he  broke  into  a 
forced  laugh.  "Twas  all  a  jest,  Bob,"  said  he. 
"Canst  not  take  a  jest?  Come,  what  hour  is  't? 
And  how  long  have  we  to  bide  here  vet?" 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFWKKSBURY.  7 

Hewlett  turned  his  face  toward  the  sky.  "  Nigh 
time  for  'em,"  said  he.  "  I  bid  them  meet  here 
when  the  moon  was  three  hour  high.  She's  near 
it  now." 

"And  you're  sure  of  them?" 

"Sure  of  Will  o'  Stratford,"  replied  Bob.  "But 
t'  other  lad  has  a  good  bit  to  cover.  Tewkesbury's 
five-an'-twenty  mile  away." 

"  1  )'ye  mean  that  he  conies  from  Tewkesbury  to 
night'/  He  must  be  a  brave  walker."  \ 

Hewlett  nodded.  "  He  is  that,"  he  answered. 
"  I  mind  when  he  were  i\\  Shottery  ten  year  agone, 
not  a  lad  could  race  again  him." 

"Shottery?  But  you  said  he  came  from  Tewkes 
bury  ?  ' ' 

"  Ay,  does  he.  His  fevther's  a  mustard-man 
there.  But  when  t'  sore  fever  were  there  ten  year 
agone,  his  mother  died,  and  he  were  sent  up  to 
's  aunt  at  Shottery.  He  bided  there  a  tweP- 
month,  an  's  feythir  wedded  again.  But  t'  owd 
man  holds  a  bit  o'  mead  here,  and  Will's  sent  up 
to  sell  t'  ricks  nigh  Michaelmas  every  year.  I  took 
to  him  wonderful  then,  though  a  little  chap  —  he's 
five  year  older  nor  me  —  anil  I  ne'er  miss  to  see 
him.  And  this  time,  says  I  to  him,  '  Doant  ye 
want  to  ha'  a  bit  o'  fun  wi'  us  ag.iin?'  '  I'm  rare 
and  old  for  it,'  s  ys  he,  '  but  I'll  come  for  one  last 
bout.'  So  I  set  t'  night,  and  q>oke  to  you  and 
Will  o'  Stratfoid." 

"  He's  named  Will,  too,  then?"  said  Tuff.  "  Two 
Wills  ;  we'll  see  which  is  the  stronger.  What's  his 
other  name  ?  " 

Hewlett  looked  pu/zled.  "  I  doant  rightly 
mind;  'tis  Kelp,  or  Sells,  or  summat  like  that.  I 
just  call  him  Will.  Here  comes  one  or  t'  other." 

A    slight    crackling    sound    was    heard    in    the 


<S  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKESBURY. 

distance,  and  Hewlett,  taking  up  a  dead  stick, 
snapped  it  twice  across. 

"That's  t'  sign,"  said  he. 

The  branches  parted,  and  a  tall,  lithe  young 
man  stepped  out  of  the  shadows.  He  wore  dark 
green  hose,  a  short  tunic  of  the  same  color,  with  a 
broad  leather  belt,  a  cap  with  a  cock's  feather  on 
one  side,  and  a  bow  and  case  of  arrows  at  his 
back. 

"  Well  met,  Will,"  said  Bob,  taking  his  hand. 
"  This  be  Joe  Tuff.  Joe,  here's  my  friend  Will  o' 
Tewkesbury.  What  dost  ail,  |oe?"  For  Tuff  drew 
back,  and  affected  a  sudden  fit  of  sneezing. 

"  Chewks  —  Chewks  — Chewkesbury  mustard  !  " 
he  jerked  out,  with  violent  contortions. 

"  I'll  try  a  clap  o'  the  pate  to  cure  thee,"  said 
the  new  comer  ;  and  as  Tuff  doubled  up  in  a  fresh 
paroxysm,  he  sent  him  heels  over  head  with  a  sound 
box  on  the  ear. 

"  How  now,  lad  ?  does  Tewkesbury  mustard 
sting?  " 

Tuff  rose,  and  fell  back  into  the  shade,  rubbing 
his  ear,  and  muttering  something  about  not  for 
getting. 

"  Here's  Will  o'  Stratford,"  said  Hewlett,  and  a 
fourth  young  man  in  grey  joined  the  party. 

"  How  goes  it,  minions  of  moonlight?  "  he  cried, 
in  a  singularly  musical  and  resonant  voice.  "Shall 
we  be  merry?  Shall  we  strike  a  deer  extempore  ?" 

"No  such  luck,"  said  Tuff.  "  Bob,  here,  bears  all 
the  game  we're  like  to  find.  Hut  how  hast  left 
wife  and  child,  Goodman  Will  ?  '  Tis  no  safe 
sport  this  for  a  married  man." 

"  Nay,"  replied  the  youth,  "Nan  must  take  her 
chance.  An'  I'm  laid  by  the  heels,  I  trust  I  shall 
become  the  stocks  as  well  as  another.  But  to  our 
gear.  Which  way,  Bob?" 


THF.    lUII.lKF    OK   TFAVKKSBUHV.  (j 

"Over  yon,  where  t'  beck  crosses  path,"  replied 
Hewlett.  "  Come  and  I'll  set  ye  in  place." 

They  rose  and  followed  Bob  along  the  border  of 
the  woods,  walking  in  single  file,  and  keeping  in 
the  shadow.  The  rippling  sound  of  water  was  soon 
heard,  and  after  breaking  their  way  through  a 
thicket  of  alders  and  willows,  they  halted  where 
the  brook  crossed  a  winding  wood  road. 

"  Here  ye  are,"  whispered  Bob.  "  Keep  close, 
doant  speak  loud  ;  y're  none  so  far  from  t'  Hall 
now.  I  know  where  t'  deer  feed  ;  I'll  go  about, 
and  drive  'em  this  way.  Wind's  in  their  back,  and 
they'll  none  see  ye  till  they're  right  near.  Then 
shoot.  Tewkesbury  Will,  you've  bow  and  shafts 
I  see.  Will  o'  Stratford — eh?  What?  Naught 
but  a  quarter-staff  ?  Well,  one  good  shot's  enow. 
Ve've  all  knives  for  flaying — he  should  fall  i'  t' 
beck  —  and  I'll  soon  be  here  to  help.  Kh  !"  as 
.the  moon  shone  strongly  on  the  young  men's 
faces,  "  how  like  you  two  Wills  are  to  each  other  ! 
Ye  might  be  brothers.  Well,  look  for  t'  herd  or 
many  minutes."  And  splashing  along  tho  edges  of 
the  stream,  he  was  presently  lost  to  view. 

The  three  waited,  conversing  in  low  tones. 

"  He  said  you  two  might  be  brothers,"  said  Tuff, 
"and  no  doubt  you'll  agree  like  brothers." 

"  Dost  think  us  like,  then,"  asked  he  of  Strat 
ford,  "  like  as  the  two  wise  men  of  Syracuse?" 

"  I  mind  them  well,"  said  Tuff,  "  they  fought  in 
the  siege,  methinks." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  other,  '•  they  faced  it  out  well, 
but  fought  not.  And  as  we  speak  of  fighting, 
brother  Will,  canst  draw  a  good  bow;3  " 

"The  bow's  good  enow,"  said  Tewkesbury  Will, 
"but  1  mistrust  the  bowman.  I  ne'er  *hot  yet  at 
deer.  Prithee,  do  thou  take  it,  and  prove  thy 
skill." 


10  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

After  a  little  demur,  the  Stratford  youth  took 
the  bow  and  shafts,  giving  his  staff  in  their  place. 
And  scarcely  had  the  change  been  effected  when 
a  low  "  Hist !  "  from  Tuff  warned  them  of  the 
deer's  approach. 

For  a  few  seconds,  all  were  still  as  stone.  The 
moon,  now  almost  at  the  zenith,  shone  brightly 
down  on  the  mossy  road,  the  gleaming  brook,  and 
the  three  figures  —  one  leaning  on  his  staff,  one 
with  his  hand  on  the  bowstring,  and  one  crouching 
low  in  shadow,  clutching  at  his  knife.  Then  the 
thud  of  light  hoofs  was  heard  on  the  turf,  and  a 
noble  buck  dashed  round  the  turn,  and  bore 
straight  down  upon  them.  Drawing  his  arrow  to 
the  head,  Stratford  Will  let  it  fly  fair  at  the  deer's 
breast.  But  at  the  very  instant,  checking  his 
speed,  the  buck  lowered  his  head.  The  shaft, 
striking  a  tine  of  his  antlers,  glanced  upward  into 
the  air,  and  the  deer,  snorting  with  fright,  wheeled 
short  to  the  left,  and  was  in  cover  ere  the  archer 
could  seize  another  arrow. 

The  baffled  poachers  looked  at  each  other,  but 
no  time  was  given  them  for  words  before  two  men 
armed  with  musketoons  sprang  from  behind  a  huge 
tree,  and  shouting  "  Stand,  ye  rogues  !  Stand, 
knaves  !  "  rushed  in  upon  them.  The  foremost 
discharged  his  piece  at  Tewkesbury  Will,  but 
missed  his  aim.  Throwing  down  the  weapon  he 
drew  a  short  sword,  and  aimed  a  blow  at  the 
young  man's  head,  which  Will  cleverly  parried  with 
his  staff,  only  receiving  a  slight  wound  on  the  arm, 
and  dealing  the  keeper,  in  turn,  a  blow  on  the  skull 
which  staggered  him.  Improving  his  advantage, 
Will  was  about  to  close,  when  Tuff  caught  him  by 
the  ankle  from  behind,  and  threw  him  flat  on  his 
face.  The  keeper  was  on  him  in  an  instant,  and 


THE     BAILIFF    OF   TF.WKFSBURY.  TI 

holding  him  firmly  down,  had  his  hands  bound  in 
a  trice.  The  other  keeper,  meanwhile,  with  his 
musket  at  Stratford  Will's  breast,  held  him  at  bay 
till  his  comrade  tied  him  also. 

"A  good  haul,"  said  the  taller,  most  active,  and 
evidently  superior  keeper,  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
rubbing  his  smarting  crown.  "A  good  haul.  l»ut 
wlvjre's  t'  other  ieilow,  Dick?  Methought  I  saw 
three." 

"  S )  did  I,  Master  Powdrell,"  replied  the 
und^rli.ig,  i:  but  he's  none  here.  Me  mun  ha'  run 
for  't." 

"  \Ve!!,  well,"  answered  Powdrell,  "belike  'twas 
a.  stinv).  But  we  mun  get  cm  up  to  Hall  or  Sir 
Tummi;  is  abed.  (iT  me  thy  musket,  Dick.  Take 
up  his  br.v  and  bolts.  Move  on  afore,  ye  knaves, 
and  nun  1  ye,  no  running,  or  I'll  scatter  the  little 
brains  yj  h.ive." 

They  turned  up  the  road,  and  were  presently 
joined  bv  a  third  keeper,  dragging  with  him  the 
lucklesi  Hewlett.  Xo  words  were  exchanged  by 
the  captives,  and  few  bv  the  keepers,  until  after 
skirting  a  high  wall  for  some  distance,  they 
entered  a  gateway,  and  saw  before  them  the  long 
brick  front  of  Charlecote  Hall. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Where  should  a  father  he  so  well 
As  in  the  bosom  of  his  family?" 

—  French  Song. 

SIR  THOMAS  LUCY  sat  at  supper  with  his  family. 
The  Squire  of  Charlecote  was  but  recently  re 
turned  from  a  long  clay's  hunting,  as  his  huge  be 
spattered  boots,  rusty  spurs,  and  the  riding  cloak 
hung  on  his  chair  back,  testified.  His  doublet, 
shaped  and  stiffened  with  buckram  almost  into  the 
similitude  of  armor,  rose  closely  under  his  pointed 
beard  and  long  iron-grey  hair,  the  ruff,  then  a 
usual  complement  of  male  or  female  costume,  hav 
ing  been  laid  aside  as  unsuited  to  the  exigencies  of 
the  chase.  Jovial  by  nature,  he  was  now  in  ex 
tremely  good  humor,  for  a  fresh  fox's  brush 
against  the  chimney-piece  showed  that  the  gallant 
knight  had  that  day  been  first  in  at  the  death. 
The  remnants  of  a  large  pasty,  a  round  of  beef,  and 
a  dish  of  eels,  indicated  the  proverbial  appetite  of 
the  hunter,  who  was  now  applying  himself  to  the 
flagon,  and  between  draughts  relating  the  adven 
tures  of  the  day  to  an  audience  of  three. 

Lady  Joyce  Lucy,  a  mature  but  sMll  comely  ma 
tron,  sat  at  the  board  head,  regarding  her  lord's 
potations  with  some  anxiety,  and  lending  an  atten 
tive  but  uninterested  ear  to  his  discourse.  Her 
ladyship  wore  a  half-round  farthingale  and  bodice 
of  dark  satin  over  a  petticoat  of  murrey-colored 
cloth.  Her  coif,  pinners  and  ruff  were  of  finest 
lace,  but  save  a  single  ring,  she  wore  no  ornaments. 
Sir  Thomas'  son  and  heir,  a  young  man  some 
what  over  twenty,  who  had  followed  the  chase 


THK    HAIUFF    OK    TEWKKSBL'RY.  1^ 

with  him  all  day,  sat  on  one  side  of  the  table. 
The  youth  had  changed  his  riding  gear  for  a  suit 
of  grey  velvet,  but,  quite  overpowered  by  the  exer 
cise  which  had  only  invigorated  his  sturdy  sire, 
nodded  and  blinked  behind  a  half-emptied  cup, 
wearily  awaiting  the  sign  of  dismissal. 


Tiut  Sir  Thomas  had  at  least  one  enthusiastic 
hearer.  Fronting  the  young  squire,  but  with  her 
face  turned  towards  his  father,  her  eyes  shining 
like  stars,  her  cheeks  glowing,  and  the  teeth  just 
seen  through  her  parted  lips,  sat  Mistress  Dorothy 


14  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURV. 

Lucy,  a  distant  cousin  of  Sir  Thomas,  though  com 
monly  called  his  niece.  She  was  a  girl  of  about 
fifteen,  habited  in  a  peach-colored  gown,  slashed 
on  neck  and  sleeves  to  show  the  white  lining.  A 
knot  of  blue  ribbon,  just  matching  her  eyes,  held 
back  her  short,  brown  curls,  and  two  pearls  set  in 
gold,  her  greatest  treasures,  dangled  from  her  small 
ears.  She  was  now  intent  on  the  narrative  of  her 
uncle,  whom  she  firmly  believed  to  be  the  greatest, 
wisest,  and  bravest  of  men. 

"  So,  as  I  said,"  went  on  Sir  Thomas,  "  the  first 
fox  gave  us  a  quick  run,  but  got  to  earth  ere  long. 
We  next  beat  Chelmsley  Wood,  and  soon  started 
another.  And  which  hound  of  them  all,  d'ye  think, 
first  hit  off  the  scent?  —  Another  cup  of  sack,  An 
drew.  —  Why,  Ajax  here.  Thou  knowest  Ajax,  my 
lady?" 

"The  black  dog,  is  't  not,  Sir  Thomas?  "an 
swered  Lady  Lucy,  scanning  the  group  of  hounds 
before  the  great  fire. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  testily.  "  I 
had  thought  thou  knewest  some  of  them,  Dame. 
I'll  be  bound  Dorothy  could  pick  him  out.  Canst 
tell  us,  Doll?" 

"  In  sooth  I  can.  Uncle,"  replied  the  girl.  "  The 
spotted  one  with  the  torn  ear  is  Ajax  :  and  the 
black  one  is  Neptune,  his  brother  —  the  grooms 
call  them  Jack  and  Nipper  — and  the  others  are 
Juno  and  Tray.  Then,  besides  "- 

"  Peace,  child,"  interposed  Lady  Lucy.  "  Thy 
uncle  is  answered." 

"  Well  done  !  well  done,  wench  !  "  cried  Sir 
Thomas.  "  We'll  make  a  huntress  of  thee  soon. 
I've  my  eye  on  a  palfrey  for  thee,  and  shalt  go 
with  me  some  fine  day  next  month.  And  I  war 
rant  'twill  not  be  long  ere  every  young  fellow 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKESI5URY.  1  5 

round  will   risk  his  neck   to  be  first  to  bring  the 
brush  to  Mistress  Dorothy,  and  win  a  smile  — 

"  Truly,  Sir  Thomas,"  said  his  lady,  "  you  do 
great  wrong  to  put  such  thoughts  in  Dorothy's 
head.  She  is  yet  but  a  child." 

Sir  Thomas  made  a  grimace,  and  took  a  long 
draught.  "Where  was  I?"  said  he.  "Ay,  ay. 
The  fox  went  straight  away  to  the  south,  through 
Hopton  hills,  and  over  the  heads  of  Nen  Water. 
More  than  one  lay  wallowing  in  the  ditches  or  we 
got  through.  We  killed  at  last  near  Guest  Farm  — 
a  run  of  two  hours  good  —  and  thy  old  uncle  was  in 
at  the  death  next  to  the  huntsman.  —  Andrew, 
another  cup  of  sack." 

"Niece  Dorothy,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house, 
"  'tis  time  thou  and  I  went  to  our  oratory."  And 
she  rose  from  her  chair. 

Andrew  stepped  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  for 
his  lady's  passage  ;  but  finding  some  one  without, 
parleyed  with  him  a  minute,  and  then  returning 
addressed  Sir  Thomas.  "  Please  your  Worship, 
Powdrell  and  the  other  keepei*  are  here  \vi'  three 
porchers  they  ha'  just  ta'en  in  the  park  ;  and  will 
your  Worship  be  pleased  to  see  them  now,  or  shall 
they  put  them  in  ward  till  morn?  " 

Sir  Thomas  turned  himself  impatiently.  "  Poach 
ers?  Plague  on  't  !  a  man  has  no  rest  !  Bid  Pow 
drell  put  them  in  the  strong  room  over  night  ;  I'll 
have  this  evening  to  myself.  —  Nay,  stay,  i  had 
forgot  :  I  sit  at  assi/.e  to-morrow  with  Sir  John 
Dempster.  -  1  lave  them  up  to  the  hall  ;  mayhap  I 
can  despatch  the  business  now.  Bring  my  furred 
gown,  Andrew  ;  and  send  Master  Tuff  down  with  all 
speed." 

The  servant  bowed  and  departed.  Sir  Thomas 
took  another  draught,  and  rose  reluctantly  from 


16  THK    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKSBURY. 

his  chair.  He  was  just  leaving  the  room,  when  a 
sudden  whim  seized  his  fancy,  and  he  turned  to 
his  niece  and  son,  who,  having  risen,  respectfully 
awaited  his  departure. 

"  Niece  Doll,"  said  he,  "  thou  hast  never  yet 
seen  me  in  the  judgment  seat  :  wilt  go  now-,  and 
hear  me  give  sentence  upon  these  rogues?" 

"  Nay,  Sir  Thomas,"  remonstrated  his  lady, 
"  methirrks  it  ill  becomes  a  young  damsel  of  her 
breeding  to  be  in  presence  with  such  rude  fellows, 
and  at  this  hour." 

The  girl  hung  back,  looking  anxiously  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"What  say'st,  wench?"  asked  Sir  Thomas. 
"  Wilt  go,  or  no?" 

"  Prithee,  good  aunt  —  if  my  uncle  will  have  me, 
I  would  fain  go —  I  will  take  my  muffler,  and  stand 
quiet  as  any  mouse  behind  his  chair,"  faltered 
Dorothy. 

•'  It  were  more  seemly  that  she  abode  here  with 
me,''  urged  her  aunt,  sternly. 

"Tush,  lush!"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "she  shall 
take  no  harm.  Tom,  fence  thy  cousin  on  t'  other 
side.  Come  with  me,  both."  And  taking  his 
niece's  hand,  he  led  her  from  the  room,  his  :;on 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Lady  Lucy  looked  after 
.them  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  of  grave 
displeasure,  and  then  swept  away  to  her  own 
apartment. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  Brest  in  a  little  brief  authority."  —  SHAKESPEARE. 

SIR  THOMAS  paused  a  tew  moments  on  the 
threshold  of  the  hall  to  adjust  his  gown,  a  delay 
which  gave  Dorothy  time  to  send  a  maid,  who 
stood  njar,  for  a  muffler,  wherewith  she  veiled  her 
face,  alter  the  manner  of  a  modern  oriental  female. 

The  apartment  they  now  entered  was  the  largest 
in  the  house.  At  one  end  was  a  dais,  upon  which 
gave  the  inner  door.  Here  stood  the  Justice's 
chair,  with  a  table  before  it,  on  which  two  wax 
candles  flared  in  the  draughts  which  played  through 
the  long  and  lofty  room.  In  front  were  a  desk 
and  stool.  On  one  side  a  servant  was  replenish 
ing  the  fire  in  the  great  chimney ;  along  the 
opposite  wall  torches  in  iron  branches  alternated 
with,  and  flashed  upon  stands  of  pikes  and  hal 
berds,  corslets  and  helmets,  some  of  which  had 
done  service  under  Cceur  de-Lion.  Near  the 
outer  door  stood  the  keepers  with  their  prisoners, 
and  as  the  great  man  entered  all  louted  low. 

"  Set  yonder  joint-stool  for  Mistress  Dorothy, 
lads,"  called  Sir  Thomas  authoritatively,  as  one  or 
two  men  servants  came  forward,  "here — at  my 
right  hand.  Son  Thomas,  stand  close  beside  her 
with  thy  sword.  Where  is  Master  Tuff?  I  bade 
thee  fetch  him,  Andrew." 

"  Please  your  Worship,"  replied  the  man,  "  I 
sought  in  his  closet,  and  then  below  stairs,  and 
none  had  seen  him." 

"  Go  look  again,  send  more,"  commanded  the 
Justice,  who  felt  himself  at  a  loss  without  his 


1 8  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

quick-witted  clerk.  "  He  is  ever  to  seek  when 
needed.  Powdrell,  put  these  fellows  forward,  that 
I  may  fetch  their  misdeeds  to  the  light." 

The  three  poachers  were  accordingly  brought 
nearer  the  dais,  and  Sir  Thomas  entered  on  an 
exordium  calculated  to  impress  both  them  and 
his  niece. 

"  Fellows,  ye  stand  before  me  as  infringers  of 
more  laws  than  one  —  the  lex  sobrietatis,  or  law 
of  temperance,  for  I  warrant  ye  had  well  drunken 
ere  ye  set  forth  to  rob  —  the  lex  l&sct  majestaiis, 
for  what  saith  the  poet,  '  Non  equitem  invideo, 
miror  magistratus,'  which  is,  being  translated,  '  I 
respect  a  knight,  and  still  more  a  magistrate',  and 
both  these  dignities  have  ye  dishonored  in  my 
person  —  lastly,  the  lex  silvce,  or  forest  law  —  how, 
ye  know  best.  And  what  color  of  excuse  have  ye, 
forsooth?  Have  not  I,  myself,  rebuilt  Charlecote 
Manor,  that  'tis  an  honor  and  a  glory  to  the 
country  side?  Have  I  not  enlarged  and  beautified 
the  park,  planted  it  with  goodly  trees,  and  for 
bidden  a  right  of  way  therein  to  none  (by  day  at 
least)  save  manifest  and  sturdy  rogues?  Nay, 
have  I  not,  even  within  the  last  few  years,  brought 
in,  at  great  charges  to  myself,  a  breed  of  deer, 
which,  if  unharmed,  cannot  fail  to  increase  and 
multiply  wondrously?  All  this  I  have  done,  like 
a  good  landlord  and  master,  who  considers  not 
himself ;  and  yet  iniquity  doth  so  abound  that  a 
sort  of  losels  stick  not  to  enter  in,  robbing  me  of 
the  fruit  of  my  labors,  bringing  discredit  on  the 
name  of — that  is,  on  the  county  of  Warwick  — 
and  —  " 

Here  the  Squire,  whose  eloquence  had  begun 
something  to  fail  him,  was  interrupted  by  his 
delinquent  clerk,  who  burst  into  the  room  as 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKESBURY.  19 

though  pursued  by  witches.  A  very  hasty  toilet 
had  not  obliterated  the  traces  of  his  flight  through 
the  park,  and  his  soaked  boots  and  briar-torn 
hands  might  have  told  a  tale  to  sharper  eyes  than 
the  knight's. 

"  What  means  this,  sirrah?  "  asked  Sir  Thomas, 
turning  a  gloomy  brow  toward  his  subordinate. 
"  Is  it  fitting  that  justice,  in  her  very  seat,  should 
wait  on  the  pleasure  ot  a  scrivener?" 

"  1  humbly  crave  your  \Yorship's  pardon,"  re- 
plied  Tuff,  bowing  down  to  the  ground.  "  I  knew 
not  that  your  Worship  was  returned  from  the  hunt ; 
and  I  had  leave  from  her  ladyship  to  go  see  my 
mother,  who  is  grievously  ill." 

"Dost  love  thy  mother?"  asked  his  employer. 

"She  is  most  dear  to  me,  your  \Yorship,"  an 
swered  Tuff,  who  even  then  could  not  refrain  from 
a  sorry  play  upon  words. 

"Well  —  go  to—  "  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "get 
thy  ink-horn  and  make  ready  to  take  down  the 
testimony  and  names  :  and  let  neither  slumber  nor 
sick-beds  keep  thee  again  from  thy  duty." 

Tuff,  once  more  bowing  low,  drew  the  stopper 
from  his  ink-horn,  took  a  pen  from  above  his  ear, 
and  kneeling  at  his  desk,  for  want  of  the  stool 
which  Dorothy  occupied,  prepared  for  his  work. 
Meanwhile  a  little  by-play  went  on  behind  him. 

"Sir,"  said  the  domestic,  who  had  been  sent  for 
Tuff,  to  the  young  squire,  "  my  Lady  would  speak 
with  you." 

In  truth,  the  good  lady  had  been  so  disturbed 
in  mind  at  the  thought  of  her  niece  in  such  com 
pany,  that  she  finally  sent  for  her  son,  resolved 
even  to  risk  her  lord's  displeasure  by  recalling  the 
damsel,  if  she  seemed  in  the  way  of  harm. 

"Have  I  your  leave  to  depart,  Sir  Thomas?" 
asked  the  youth. 


2O  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKF,SI!URV. 

"  How?  speak  with  thy  lady  mother?  Ay  :  she 
still  fears  for  Dorothy,  I  trow.  Go  thy  ways  ;  tell 
her  the  maiden  is  safe  as  in  Warwick  Castle. 
Leave  Andrew  in  thy  stead,  till  thou  come  again." 

The  young  man  departed ;  but,  finding  his 
mother's  fears  not  readily  soothed,  did  not  return 
for  some  time. 

Meanwhile  the  one  keeper  testified  to  taking 
Hewlett  with  the  rnre  in  his  possession,  and  the 
others  related  how  they  had  lain  in  ambush  by  the 
brook.  Sir  Thomas  listened  composedly  until  he 
heard  of  the  shot  r.t  the  deer,  when  he  blazed  up 
into  sudden  anger. 

"The  buck,  say'st  thou?  the  five-tined  buck? 
The  very  one  I  had  marked  for  my  own  coursing 
next  season  !  Dick,  ga  forth  instantly,  come  not 
back  till  thou  find  him.  By  my  faith,  it  shall  go 
hard  with  these  fellows  if  he  be  hurt  to  death. 
And  'twas  you  lad  in  grey  drew  the  bow,  and  ye 
have  it  there?  Nay,  I  must  sort  ye.  What's  thy 
name,  sirrah  ?"  inquired  the  Squire  (who,  as  will 
be  observed,  had  somewhat  inverted  the  usual 
order  of  proceedings),  turning  to  the  nearest  cul 
prit. 

"  Bob  Hewlett,  your  Worship." 

"  And  thine?"  to  the  youth  in  green. 

"  Will  Helpes." 

"  And  thine,  my  brave  bowman?" 

"  William  Shakespeare." 

That  name,  now  heard  with  veneration  through 
out  the  civilized  world,  produced  very  different 
effects  three  centuries  ago  in  the  Warwick  justice- 
hall.  The  Squire  started  up,  purple  with  fury. 

"  What's  this?"  he  roared,  with  a  hearty  impre 
cation.  "  Shakespeare  ?  I  marvel  I  knew  thee 
not  sooner.  Why,  thou  frontless  rogue,  thou  hast 


THE    UAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  21 

been  here  once,  yea,  twice,  before,  and  I  let  thee 
go  with  a  warning,  for  the  sake  of  thy  father  and 
family.  Ay,  and  I'll  be  bound  'twas  thou  writ  yon 
scurril  ballad  on  me,  and  pinned  it  on  my  park 
gates,  where  thou  deservest  to  be  hanged  thyself. 
\\'as't  not  so?  Hast  naught  to  say?  Speak  up, 
knave,  and  look  me  in  the  face,  if  thou  darest  !  " 

Slowly  Shakespeare  raised  his  head,  and  looked 
full  at  his  judge  with  those  wondrous  eyes  —  the 
brightest,  deepest,  wisest,  that  ever  shone  under 
mortal  brows.  The  effect  was  magical.  Sir  Thomas 
sank  into  his  chair,  the  torrent  of  invective  stayed 
on  his  lips,  and  the  angry  flush  dying  from  his 
cheeks,  while  Dorothy  half  rose,  the  muffler  falling 
back,  and  her  face  irradiated  as  with  sunrise. 

A  few  seconds  passed.  Then  Shakespeare 
dropped  his  eyes  again,  and  Sir  Thomas,  with  a 
gasp  like  a  spent  diver's,  drew  himself  up. 

"  Master  Tuff,"  said  he,  in  steady  but  guarded 
tones,  "  make  out  an  order  for  the  committal  of 
William  Shakespeare  to  Warwick  gaol.  Powdrell, 
see  that  the  gyves  be  ready,  and  a  cart  to  take  him 
thither ;  put  him  into  the  strong-room  for  the  night. 
Son  Thomas,  art  there?  Lend  me  thy  arm." 

"  Please  your  Worship,"  said  Powdrell,  as  the 
squire  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  "  shall  we 
lock  'em  up  all  three  ?  " 

"  Let  the  others  go  —  let  them  go  —  what  care 
I  ?  "  said  Sir  Thomas  impatiently.  "  Here,  ye 
knaves — ye  see  the  example  of  your  fellow — -be 
warned  —  I  promise  ye  he  shall  suffer  —  go  your 
way.  Lock  him  up  safe,  Powdrell,  give  him  no 
meat  to-night  ;  his  stomach  must  come  down." 
And  the  Justice  departed  with  his  niece  and  son, 
while  the  offenders  were  led  in  the  directions  he 
had  indicated. 


22  THE    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESBURV. 

"  Alack  !  "  murmured  Sir  Thomas,  as  he  laid 
his  head  on  his  pillow  that  night,  "  I  would  I  had 
the  trick  of  that  Shakespeare's  face.  Could  I  but 
look  out  of  his  eyes,  I  might  be  Lord  Keeper  ere 
I  die  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"The  fountains  of  my  daily  life 
Are  through  thy  f/iendship  fair." 

--  EMERSON. 

WHKX  the  heir  of  Charlecote  left  the  hall  at  his 
mother's  summons,  after  traversing  a  passage  or  > 
two,  and  ascending  the  wide  stairs,  he  stopped 
before  a  door  and  scratched  thereon  with  his  nail, 
a  classic  fashion  then  revived.  At  the  answer,  he 
raised  the  latch  and  entered.  Lady  Lucy,  her  coif 
removed,  and  her  abundant  hair,  scarcely  touched 
by  time,  falling  over  her  shoulders,  was  seated  in 
an  elbow  chair  by  the  fireplace.  One  small  square 
of  carpet,  then  a  costly  rarity,  lay  at  the  side  of 
the  great  canopied  bedstead,  but  otherwise  the 
boards  were  bare. 

"Son,"  asked  his  mother  anxiously,  "dost  think 
Dorothy  is  safe  below?  I  seldom  speak  my  word 
against  thy  father's,  but  I  like  not  to  have  her  sit 
there-,  with  no  woman  near." 

"  Rest  you  easy,  Madam,"  replied  the  young 
man,  "  the  princess  is  quite  safe  from  the  salvages." 
There  was  a  covert  sneer  in  his  voice. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Lady  Lucy,  "speak  not  thus. 
'Tis  a  dear  sweet  girl,  and  I  would  have  thee  love 
her  as  a  sisler.  We  must  never  show  them  how 
we  care  for  them,  but  I  feel  moved  at  times  to  kiss 
her,  and  call  her  some  pet  name  —  which  were  a 
sad  weakness,  nnd  would  be  her  ruin.  Hark  !  is 
not  that  thy  father's  voice  in  anger?  C.o  down, 
Tom,  thou  may'st  be  needed.  Heaven  L<.tp  us 
all  from  harm  !  "  js 


24  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFWKKSKURY. 

The  youth  left  the  room,  bu_,  i,y  no  means  hasten 
ing  his  steps,  only  arrived  just  as  the  court  broke  up. 
The  hour  was  late,  and  Charlecote  Manor  was  soon 
wrapped  in  silence. 

But  silence  means  not  always  slumber,  as  one 
inmate  of  the  Hall  was  proving.  Midnight  had 
passed,  and  still  Dorothy  Lucy  leaned  from  her 
casement,  despite  the  chill  autumn  air,  while 
memories  and  fancies  chased  one  another  through 
her  brain. 

"  Who  can  he  be?"  she  thought.  "  Is  it  some 
knight  in  disguise  ?  Nay  —  my  uncle  knew  him, 
and  spoke  his  name.  Sure,  I  have  heard  it  before. 
Shakespeare  —  Shakespeare — yes,  they  dwell  in 
Stratford.  But  how  came  he  by  such  a  look?  He 
is  like  Apollo,  in  the  book  my  aunt  chid  me  so  for 
reading.  And  he  must  go  to  one  of  those  fearsome 
gaols,  perchance  be  hanged,  and  all  for  shooting 
at  a  deer.  It  must  not  be  !  "  She  started  up  and 
walked  to  and  fro.  "  But  what  to  do  ?  Shall  I 
go  down  and  seek  for  the  strong-room  key?  But 
my  uncle  would  be  angered,  my  aunt  call  me 
unmaidenly  — 

She  turned  to  the  window,  and  again  looked 
forth.  Suddenly  she  caught  a  murmur  of  voices 
in  the  shrubbery,  and,  stretching  further  out, 
presently  saw  a  female  figure  come  hurrying  from 
the  shadows  across  the  gravel  path,  and  disappear 
under  one  of  the  back  entrances.  Stepping  from 
her  door,  Dorothy  passed  into  the  large  upper 
hall,  just  as  light  feet  came  creeping  up  the  back 
stair,  and  by  the  moonlight  which  streamed  through 
the  high  western  window  she  recognized  one  of  the 
housemaids. 

"What  dost  thou  here,  Cicely?"  said  she.  "  I 
feared  some  one  had  broke  in." 


THF.    I1A1LIFF    OF    TFAVKKsr.l'KV.  25 

"  Is't  thou,  Mistress  Dorothy?  "  replied  the  girl, 
suppressing  a  scream.  "  I  did  but  go  down  to 
fetch  a  pitcher  o'  waiter  fro'  t'  kitchen." 

"  Cicely,"  said  Dorothy,  gravely,  "tell  me  no 
falsehoods.  I  saw  thee  on  the  path  without  but 
now.'' 

"  Nay,  Mistress,"  answered  the  maid  rudely, 
"  happen  thou  did'st  see  one  o'  Xan  laundress' 
clouts  flap  o'  the  drying  lines.  There  are  o'er 
many  heads  i'  this  hoose  for  one  poor  wench  to 
please  'em  all."  And  adding  under  her  breath  some 
thing  about  "prying  and  spying,"  she  was  making 
at  the  garret  stair. 

"Why  dost  flout  me  thus,  Cicely?"  said 
Dorothy.  "  I  never  was  aught  but  kind  to  thee. 
An'  thou  wilt  say  no  more,  my  Lady  must  hear  of 
this." 

The  girl  fell  on  her  knees,  and  burst  into 
smothered  sobs. 

"Oh,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  she  choked  out, 
"  forgi'  me.  I  mind  how  thou  broughtst  me  drink 
last  year,  when  'twas  thought  I  had  t'  plague,  and 
none  would  come  nigh  me.  I'll  tell  thee  all.  I 
did  but  goo  down  to  moder's  t'  see  poor  broder 
Robin,  as  has  listed  for  a  sodger,  and  goos  away 
by  daylight;  and  as  I  fared  back  through  park 
—  but  ye'll  none  believe  me — 

"Co  on,  Cicely,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  I  met  wi'  a  tall  strappan'  lad,  as  I  knew  for 
one  o'  th'  porchers  as  his  Worship  let  goo  last  night. 
1  saw  'em  then,  as  they  past  the  scullery  hatch. 
1  were  for  showin  un'  a  clean  pair  o'  heels,  but  a' 
spoke  me  fair  and  bid  me  stop.  An'  what  think 
ye  he  axed  me  for?  Not  a  kiss,  nor  none  such 
folly,  but  if  I  could  na'  find  strong-room  key,  an' 
put  him  in  place  o'  t'  other  lad,  —  Chake  —  what 
did  keeper  say  were  his  name?" 


26  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  Shakespeare." 

"  Ay,  so." 

"  And  what  didst  thou  say  ?  "  queried  Dorothy. 

"  Whoy,  I  bid  un  hold's  prate,  or  I'd  call  Hugh 
gardner,  an'  loose  t'  mastiff;  so  I  coom'd  away." 

"  Cicely,  Cicely,"  said  Dorothy,  hurriedly,  "lose 
not  a  moment,  come  with  me  quickly  !  " 

And  seizing  the  girl  by  the  arm,  she  hastened 
her  down  to  the  garden  door.  With  some  help 
from  the  staring  and  astonished  maid,  she  drew  the 
bar  from  its  mortises,  slid  the  bolts,  and  they  stood 
looking  out  from  a  small  porch  which  had  been 
built  into  an  angle  of  the  structure. 

"  Now,  Cicely,"  said  Dorothy,  "  if  thou  lov'st 
me,  speed.  Find  the  youth  thou  wast  speaking 
with  —  I  will  stay  here,  and  call  help,  should  he 
mean  harm  —  bring  him  hither  —  show  him  the 
little  window  of  the  strong-room — get  the  ladder, 
if  thou  canst  —  let  him  save  his  friend." 

"  But,  Mistress,"  stammered  the  girl,  overborne 
by  Dorothy's  impetuosity,  yet  doubting  the  at 
tempt,  and  fearful  of  consequences,  "  why  should 
us  try  —  what  be  t'  good  ?  Sir  Tummas  'ull  be 
mortal  angry." 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  Dorothy,  "  do  as  I  bid 
thee.  I  will  bear  thee  out  with  Sir  Thomas,  and 
take  the  blame,  if  blame  there  be," 

Cicely,  with  a  bewildered  air,  hastened  toward 
the  shrubbery,  and  was  seen  ere  long  returning 
with  a  tall  young  man,  to  whom  she  was  apparently 
explaining  her  sudden  change  of  purpose.  Lead 
ing  him  round  an  angle  of  the  house,  they  passed 
under  a  wall  so  thickly  overgrown  with  ivy  that 
only  by  close  scrutiny  was  a  small  window  to  be 
discovered  some  twelve  feet  from  the  ground 
among  the  clustering  leaves. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  2"J 

"That's  t'  hole,"  whispered  Cicely,  "  but  there 
be  two  bars  across.  I'll  look  for  ladder.  Gardner 
\vere  pruning  a  tree  here  to-day."  And  she  began 
peering  among  the  bushes. 

"  It  shall  not  need,"  said  the  youth,  whom  we 
have  seen  appear  in  the  last  chapter  as  Will  of 
Tewkesbury. 

Taking  the  q;:arter-staff,  which  had  been  re 
turned  to  him  on  leaving  the  hall,  he  retreated  a 
few  paces,  made  a  short  run  forward,  and  setting 
the  pole  in  the  ground,  with  a  powerful  spring 
heaved  himself  high  into  the  air,  timing  his  leap  so 
well  that  the  staff  fell  lightly  against  the  wall,  while 
he  remained  clinging  with  both  hands  to  the  up 
right  stanchion  of  the  window.  Breaking  away, 
with  a  few  strong  jerks,  the  transverse  bar,  which 
was  old  and  rusted,  he  forced  himself  through  the 
aperture.  Cicely,  returning  to  her  mistress,  re 
ported  the  success  of  the  enterprise  thus  far,  and 
then  went  back  to  await  its  completion. 

The  young  man,  meanwhile,  hanging  from  the 
stanchion  on  the  inside,  as  far  as  he  could  reach, 
called  in  a  low  voice,  "  Have  a  care,"  and  dropped 
lightly  to  the  floor  beside  the  prisoner. 

"  How  now?"  asked  Shakespeare,  "  com'st  thou 
from  the  (-1  aids,  on  a  moonbeam  ladder?  " 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  other,  "  I  am  he  shall  be 
thy  ladder.  Mistress  Dorothy,  whom  thou  sawest 
in  the  hall,  got  speech  of  me  through  her  maid, 
and  showed  me  the  way  hither.  Change  jerkins 
with  me,  get  on  my  shoulders,  and  draw  thyself 
out  of  tins  hole." 

"  I'.ut  there  is  no  way  to  draw  thee  after." 

"  Nay,  1  will  stay  here  to  answer  Sir  Thomas." 

"  What,  run  away,  and  leave  my  friend  to  pay 
all?  Not  so,  I  fear  naught  the  Justice  can  do  to 
me." 


28  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  Will,"  said  the  rescuer,  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  "be  ruled.  I  am  here  now,  and  but  one 
can  get  out.  Thou  hast  wife  and  child,  I  have 
none.  I  am  the  elder  and  should  have  kept  thee 
hence.  The  bow  was  mine,  and  I  lent  it  thee,  or 
they  had  charged  me  with  the  shot.  Sir  Thomas 
will  ne'er  know  me  from  thee,  and  I  will  seek  bail 
from  my  father.  Thou  seest  thus  that  my  fault  is 
the  heavier,  and  that  my  blame  will  be  lighter. 
And  were  it  otherwise,  I  were  no  true  friend  if  I 
would  not  dare  the  worst  for  thy  sake.  Come, 
time  presses,  up  and  away." 

"  Thou  art  well  styled,"  said  Shakespeare,  "  for 
thy  name  is  Helpes,  and  so  is  thy  nature.  But 
methinks  'tis  cowardly  thus  to  steal  off." 

"Not  a  whit,  not  a  whit  !  "  replied  Helpes,  re 
moving  his  coat,  and  urging  his  companion  to  do 
the  same.  "  'Twill  soon  be  over  for  me.  Speed 
thou  to  London  —  I  have  oft  heard  thee  say  thou 
wouldst  be  with  the  players  there  —  and  I  warrant 
thou  couldst  write  with  the  best  of  them.  Go  — 
be  a  great  man  — but  forget  not  thy  old  fellow." 

"Thou  art  the  best  of  friends,"  said  Shake 
speare,  "and  I'll  remember  thee  while  memory 
lives." 

The  youths  embraced,  and  then  Helpes,  raising 
his  friend  on  his  shoulders,  lifted  him  within  reach 
of  the  window,  and  still  further  facilitated  his 
egress  by  pushing  under  his  feet.  Next  moment 
Shakespeare  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  stood  by 
Cicely's  side. 

"Prithee,  good  maid,"  said  he,  "bring  me  to 
thy  lady.  I  would  fain  kiss  her  hand,  and  thank 
her  for  her  help." 

"  Thou  kiss  her  hand  !  "  ejaculated  Cicely. 
"Dost  mind  she's  a  Lucy  of  Charlecote?" 


TMK    BAII.IFF    OK    TKWKKSBUKV.  29 

"Faith,  I  kno\v  it,"  replied  the  youth,  "and 
bravely  she  becomes  the  name.  But  an'  she  were 
the  queen,  worse  than  Will  Shakespeare  kiss  her 
hand  each  day." 

He  stepped  toward  the  porch,  Cicely  beside 
him.  Dorothy,  greatly  agitated,  still  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Gentle  lady."  said  he,  doffing  his  cap,  "  I  would 
pay  my  thanks  for  the  debt  of  my  safety." 

'•  1  hope,  sir,"  said  Dorothy,  "  I  shall  ne'er  regret 
what  I  have  done." 

"  In  truth  thou  shall  not,"  he  replied,  and  drop 
ping  on  one  knee,  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her  hand. 

"  There,  measter,"  exclaimed  Cicely,  "  ne'er 
forget  thou'st  kissed  t'  hand  of  a  Lucy  !  ' 

'•  It  shall  be  well  remembered,"  answered  the 
youth  :  and  next  moment  he  disappeared  in  the 
shadows. 


CHAPTER   V. 


"The  crooked  stick  and  the  grey  goose  wing, 
Without  them  England  were  but  a  fling." 

— Anon. 

PERHAPS  the  soundest  sleeper  in  the  Hall  for  the 
rest  of  the  night  was  William  Helpes.  Wearied  in 
body  by  his  long  journey  and  the  exciting  vigil 

which  hr.d  followed, 
relieved  in  mind  by 
the  knowledge  of  his 
friend's  escape,  he  lay 
coiled  up  on  a  heap  of 
straw,  his  knees  drawn 
up  to  his  chin,  his  hands 
clasped  over  the  back 
of  his  neck,  wrapped  in 
such  profound  repose 
that  the  unbarring  and 
opening  of  the  door  did 
not  rouse  him,  and  it 
was  only  when  Powdrell 
stirred  him  with  his 
foot,  and  roughly  shout 
ed,  "  Come  on,  I  tell 
thee  !  "  that  he  arose. 

The  keeper  bore  in 
one  hand  a  bunch  of 
keys,  and  in  the  other 
a  rusty  pair  of  fetters, 
with  chain  attached,  which  he  was  about  to  fit  on 
the  young  man's  ankles.  But  Will  drew  back. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  31 

'•'Did  Sir  Thomas  order  thee  to  iron  me?" 
he  asked. 

"  Ay,  marry,  did  he,"  replied  Powdrell. 

"  I  prithee,  friend,"  said  Helpes,  "  let  me  go 
unbound.  I  promise  thee  not  to  flee." 

"  Promises  are  sooner  broke  than  leg-bolts," 
returned  the  other,  "  but  come  before  Sir  Tummas 
as  thou  art,  and  unless  he  says  otherways,  thou 
shalt  be  shackled,  willy  nilly."  And,  indicating 
the  way,  he  closely  followed  his  prisoner  into  the 
hall.  Mere  the  other  keepers  were  in  waiting,  and 
Sir  Thomas  presently  appeared  with  his  clerk. 

"  Hast  found  the  buck?  "  was  his  first  query. 

"  Ay,  your  Worship,"  replied  Dick,  "  and  he 
is  safe  and  sound  as  heart  could  wish." 

"  'Tis  well  —  very  well,  though  no  thanks  to 
this  Shakespeare.  And  hast  the  cart  and  mare 
without  ? '' 

"  Ay,  your  Worship." 

"  Give  me  yon  warrant,  Master  Tuff,"  said  the 
Justice.  And  taking  a  pen,  he  proceeded  to  affix 
his  sign-manual.  Meantime,  the  culprit  kept  his 
face  turned  toward  the  ground,  in  some  fear  of 
detection. 

"  And  now,"  commanded  the  knight,  "  let  my 
horse  be  ready  saddled  in  half  an  hour.  I'll  break 
my  fast  the  while.  Have  the  fellow  away." 

"  ]>en't  we  to  iron  him,  your  Worship?"  asked 
Powdrell,  approaching  with  the  fetters. 

"  Surely,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "  but  stay,"  looking 
more  closely  at  the  youth,  "  hath  he  much  hurt?  " 

And  indeed,  the  slight  wound  which  he  had  re 
ceived  from  PowdrelPs  sword  the  evening  before, 
aggravated  by  his  efforts  at  the  window,  had  bled 
not  a  little  during  the  night,  and  conspicuously 
stained  his  sleeve. 


32  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

" 'Tis  naught — naught,  your  Worship,"  said 
Helpes,  looking  up  involuntarily. 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Sir  Thomas,  glancing  more 
keenly  at  him,  "  what  was  that  ?  Look  at  me,  and 
speak  again." 

"  I  said  that  my  hurt  was  naught,  your  Worship," 
returned  Helpes,  feeling  that  evasion  would  do  him 
no  good,  and  looking  steadily  but  respectfully  at 
the  Squire. 

Slowly  and  falteringly  Sir  Thomas  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  prisoner's.  But  his  air  of  apprehension  al 
most  instantly  disappeared.  The  clear  and  honest 
orbs  which  looked  back  into  his  were  not  those  of 
the  mind-king. 

"  Thou  art  not  Shakespeare  !  "  exclaimed  the 
Justice.  "  Where  is  he?  Powdrell,  go  bring  him 
in." 

"  If  this  be  not  Shakespeare,  your  Worship,  I 
know  not  where  he  is,"  replied  the  man.  "  There 
was  none  else  in  the  strong-room." 

"  Where  is  Shakespeare?  and  who  art  thou?  and 
how  cam'st  thou  here?"  demanded  Sir  Thomas, 
turning  on  the  prisoner. 

"  Your  Worship,"  answered  Helpes,  "  Shake 
speare  is,  I  trust,  well  forward  on  the  London  road. 
I  am  Will  Helpes,  of  Tewkesbury,  whom  your  Wor- 
.  ship  was  pleased  to  let  go  last  night,  along  with 
Bob  Hewlett ;  and  I  came  here  by  taking  my 
friend's  place  in  the  strong-room." 

"  How?     Through  the  keyhole?  " 

"  Nay,  your  WTorship  ;  through  the  window, 
which  is  something  larger  than  a  keyhole.  I 
clomb  up  by  help  of  my  staff,  tore  out  one  bar, 
dropt  in,  and  pushed  him  out." 

"  But  wherefore  ?  " 

"  I  had  been  his  friend  for  ten  years,  your  Wor 
ship,"  replied  Helpes. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWK.FSBURY.  33 

"  And  when  earnest  thou  from  Tewkesbury?" 

"  I  left  the  town  an   hour  ere  sunset,  yestreen." 

"  And  wast  here  ere  ten  ?  Thou  should'st  go 
for  a  running  footman.  But  dost  see  what  a  load 
of  offences  rest  on  thee  ?  Beside  the  poaching 
and  theft,  thou  hast  broken  and  entered  a  peace 
ful  house,  and  hast  compounded  a  felony  by  this 
knave's  escape." 

"  Sir,  I  am  at  your  mercy,"  answered  Helpes. 

The  magistrate  remained  silent  for  some  min 
utes,  gazing  at  the  floor. 

"  Thou  art  a  stout  fellow,"  said  he  at  last,  "  and 
it  were  pity  such  limbs  as  thine  should  rot  in  gaol. 
Go,  get  thee  back  to  Tewkesbury.  Mark  —  this 
is  without  prejudice  to  that  rogue,  Shakespeare, 
who,  if  he  come  into  our  hands,  shall  be  made  the 
example  he  deserves.  We  will  keep  the  artillery, 
lest  thou  should'st  be  drawn  to  the  woods  again ; 
but  for  thyself,  go  free." 

The  youth  bowed,  muttering  a  few  words  of 
acknowledgment,  hesitated,  turned  toward  the 
door,  and  finally  threw  himself  before  Sir  Thomas. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  pray  you  let  me 
have  the  bow  !" 

"  By  my  faith,  friend,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  with 
amazed  displeasure,  "thou  dost  not  lack  assurance  ! 
I  grant  thee  fair  quarter,  and  thou  must  needs 
march  out  with  all  the  honors  of  war." 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  replied  Helpes,  "I  must  seem 
most  thankless.  But  hear  me  speak.  The  bow 
was  lent  me  to  use  at  the  butts  by  an  old  man 
in  Tewkesbury  almshouse,  who  saith  his  sire  bore 
it  at  the  fight  in  the  'Bloody  meadow'  there. 
'  Tis  his  only  joy  and  pride.  I  think  no  day  passes 
that  he  doth  not  rub  it  with  oil  or  wax,  and  his 
greatest  pleasure  is  to  sit  in  the  sun  o'  summer 


34  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

evenings,  twanging  on  the  string,  and  telling  his 
tale  of  the  battle  to  any  who  will  listen.  Sure  I 
am  he  would  soon  die  without  it.  I  promised  to 
bring  it  again  by  sunset  to-night.  It  was  ill  done 
of  me  to  ask  the  loan  or  make  the  promise,  as  I 
now  see,  but  it  pities  me  to  think  on  his  case.  I 
beg  your  Worship  to  send  me  to  gaol,  and  let  him 
have  his  bow." 

"  Powdrell,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "  bring  me  this 
same  bow." 

Powdrell,  stepping  to  a  corner  in  the  passage, 
took  out  the  bow,  wrapped  in  a  cloth,  and  laid  it 
before  his  master,  who,  unrolling  the  wrapper, 
scrutinized  the  weapon  closely. 

The  use  of  the  long  bow,  though  rapidly  failing, 
was  not  altogether  discontinued,  and  the  knight,  a 
keen  sportsman,  could  well  appreciate  the  worth  of 
the  specimen  in  his  hands.  Shaped  of  the  finest 
yew,  black  as  ebony,  and  smooth  as  glass  from 
constant  polishing,  yielding  slightly  at  the  merest 
touch,  yet  strong  and  elastic  as  steel  when  fully 
bent,  it  was  a  weapon  to  have  delighted  Ascham's 
eye. 

"A  finer  I  never  saw,"  said  Sir  Thomas  at  last. 
"  Didst  say  'twas  bent  at  Tewkesbury  fight?  " 

"Ay,  your  Worship." 

"And  on  the  right  side,  I'll  warrant,"  continued 
the  magistrate  with  increasing  interest. 

"  Twas  drawn  for  the  house  of  Lancaster,  your 
Worship." 

"  I  knew  it.  I  knew  it  !  "  cried  the  knight. 
"A  good  cause,  a  good  bow.  Will  Helpes,  thou 
hast  thy  weapon,  thy  liberty,  and  the  pardon  of 
Thomas  Lucy  for  all  offences  committed  against 
him.  Thou  mayst  have  a  chance  to  draw  this  bow 
for  old  England  yet,  for  truly  thy  ancient  beads- 


THE    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESBURY.  35 

man  could  not  do  better  than  leave  it  thee  as  a 
legacy.  Put  by  your  committal,  Master  Tuff. 
Have  away  the  cart  and  horse  to  the  harvest-field. 
Give  the  lad  somewhat  to  break  his  fast,  Powdrell. 
Fare  thee  well." 

Powdrell  would  have  detained  the  young  man  a 
comfortable  time  (as  he  expressed  it)  to  tell  his 
tale  and  drink  down  unkindness,  but  Helpes 
would  only  stay  for  a  cup  of  ale  and  slice  of 
bread,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  down  the  valley 
of  the  Avon. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  A  man  at  arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 
And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  old  age's  alms." 

—  Anon. 

THE  sun  of  mid-afternoon  shone  warmly  upon 
a  group  of  old  men  clustered  around  the  door  of 
Tewkesbury  almshouse.  The  building,  one  of  the 
earliest  of  its  kind,  was  a  long  low  structure  of 


coarse  pale  bricks  not  yet  mellowed  by  time,  with 
a  roof  of  red  tiles  and  one  huge  chimney. 

Such  of  the  inmates  as  could  stir  out  were  now 
gathered  together,  clad  in  rough  blue  gowns,  then 
worn  in  age  by  men  almost  as  universally  as  by 


THE    BAII.Il'F    OK    TKAVKKSBURY.  37 

women.  That  modern  solace  of  enforced  leisure, 
tobacco,  had  not  yet  crossed  the  sea,  but  one  or 
two  were  chewing  dried  clover  blossoms. 

"Sir  George  be  gone,  I  hear,"  said  Treddles,  a 
blear-eyed  old  man,  referring  to  the  death  of  a 
local  dignitary. 

"Ay,  ay,"  replied  Noorth,  who  had  lost  a  fore 
tooth,  and  whistled  at  every 's,'  "and  I  be  main 
glad  on  't.  Shant  ha'  to  bow  to  'n  no  more 
commin'  down  t'  street." 

"  Nay,"  remonstrated  Treddles,  "  'a  were  a  good 
gentleman,  and  gi'd  us  a  groat  by  times." 

"What  o'  that?"  said  Noorth,  impatiently, 
"  'twas  na'  half  what  he  might  ha'  gi'n.  But  that 
were  allays  thy  way,  Treddles,  throw  thee  a  copper, 
and  thou'd  swear  'twere  gold." 

"  Poor  folk  ha'  hard  lots,  sure-ly,  sure-ly,"  threw 
in  a  third,  leaning  on  a  crutch,  "  but  we'n  summat 
to  thank  Heavens  for  in  a  good  wall  at  our  back, 
r.nd  tight  roof  o'er  head  by  night." 

"  I  tell  thee,  Batter,  thou'rt  clean  deceived," 
declared  the  sibilant  Noorth.  "  Ah,  in  the  good  old 
times  of  our  grandsires,  'twere  different.  Then  a 
poor  man  could  bide  in  his  own  snug  house,  when 
he  were  past  work,  and  goo  up  to  the  good  Fathers 
every  day  for  's  dole,  and  the  blessing  as  went 
wi'  't,  and  none  to  let  him  in  's  way  ;  but  now  he  be 
haled  off  to  a  place  like  this,  as  is  no  better  nor 
a  prison.  And  prisoners  we're  all  like  to  be  soon, 
sick  or  sound,"  he  proceeded,  hitting  on  a  new 
cause  of  complaint,  "  for  I  hears  the  Queen  have 
sent  down  a  carter  for  town,  as  has  done  well 
wi'out  since  ever  'twere  built,  and  a  Bailey  to  be 
set  up  in  town- hall,  as  I'd  liever  see  hangman  at 
street  end  to  clap  us  all  in  chains." 

"  \Vhoy,  whoy,"  said  Batter,  rather  taken  aback, 
'  I'd  thought  as  how  't  would  be  a  fine  sight  as 


38  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEVVKESBURY. 

ever  were  :  an'  I  mean'd  to  halt  down  to  see  't,  if 
day  were  fair." 

"  Then  ye  doant  think  t'  conduit  '11  run  wi' 
wine,  as  I've  heer'd  on?  "  asked  Treddles  doubt 
fully. 

"Wine  1  "  scoffed  Noorth,  "  ay,  ye  were  allays 
a  droothy  body,  Treddles,  but  doant  think  upon  't, 
an'  there  be  a  cask  or  two  o'  bad  ale  broached,  ye 
may  gi'  thanks  on  your  knees.  Take  my  word  for 
't,  there'll  be  naught  else  to  wet  a  poor  body's 
whistle." 

"  T'  cask's  not  broached  as  '11  wet  thy  whistle, 
Noorth,"  remarked  Treddles,  nudging  the  cripple  : 
and  both  cackled  hilariously. 

"  Come,  Hinckley,  tell  us  thy  mind  on  the 
morrow's  doings,"  remarked  Noorth  hastily,  turn 
ing  to  a  fourth  old  man,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
and  whose  right  hand  twitched  nervously  to  and 
fro,  as  over  the  strings  of  some  instrument. 

"  The  morrow  — 'the  morrow  —  "  murmured  the 
other,  "  ay,  he  said  he'd  fetch  it  back  to-night. 
An'  then  I'll  go  wi'  sun,  an'  get  place  on  a  door- 
stone  I  know  in  High  street,  and  wait  till  t'  Queen, 
Lord  bless  her  !  comes  on  her  white  palfrey,  an' 
then  I'll  howd  it  up  and  cry,  '  Your  Majesty,  here's 
t'  bow  was  drawn  for  your  feyther's  house  at 
Tewkesbury  fight !  '  Ah,  I  warrant  she'll  be  rare 
an'  pleased  ! " 

"  What's  he  prating  on?  "  asked  Noorth,  with 
disgust,  turning  to  Batter. 

"  Doen't  thou  mind,"  said  the  lame  man,  "  he's 
allays  telling  the  tale  how  's  sire  fought  in  the 
bloody  mead  over  yon  with  the  bow  as  he  lent  to 
young  Measter  Helpes  yestreen?" 

"  Ay,  so.  Well,  he  were  a  fool  to  loan  't,  but  I 
hope  as  he'll  ne'er  get  it  back.  'Twill  save  me 


THE    RMLIFF    OK    TEWKESBURY.  39 

that  weary  long  tale  as  he's  allays  strivin'  to  ding 
my  ears  wi'." 

"  Here  cooms  's  suster,"  said  'Freddies.  "  Hap 
pen  she'll  fetch  un  out  o's  maze." 

A  short,  stout,  brisk-looking  woman  drew  near, 
carrying  a  bunch  of  keys  in  one  hand,  and  a  small 
parcel  in  the  other. 

"  Save  ye  all,"  said  she  in  general  greeting. 
"  How  dost  thee,  broder?  See  —  I've  brought 
'ee  a  pair  o'  warm  hosen  for  't  winter."  She  held 
out  her  parcel  to  Hinckley,  who  took  it  passively, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"  What  ailed  him?"  she  asked.  "  Hath  he  had 
a  stroke  ?  " 

"  Nay,''  replied  Batter,  "he  be  mournin'  for  's 
bow  as  he  lent  Measter  Helpes." 

"  Measter  Helpes?"  answered  the  woman. 
"  Why.  I  seed  'n  but  now  near  t'  gates,  comin' 
this  way." 

"  Had  he  bow  wi'  'n?"  demanded  her  brother, 
sharply. 

"  1  knaw  n't,"  said  she,  "  but  here  he  comes. 
Thee'll  soon  see." 

All  eyes  were  raised  in  the  direction  of  a  young 
man  who,  turning  the  corner,  came  slowly  up  the 
little  street.  His  limping  gait,  bloody  sleeve,  and 
clothes  first  soaked  and  then  caked  with  dust,  told 
something  of  the  toils  and  privations  through  which 
he  had  passed  ;  but  the  bright  eye  and  ruddy 
cheek  showed  neither  spirit  nor  strength  had  yet 
failed  him. 

"  Here's  thy  bow,  gaffer,"  said  he,  reaching  the 
weapon  to  old  Hinckley.  "  I  thank  thee  for  the 
loan,  and  have  brought  it  back  in  time.  Sun's  yet 
two  hours  high." 

The  old  man,  undoing  the  case  with  trembling 


40  THE    BAILIFF   OF   TEWKESBURY 

fingers,  examined  his  treasu.c  closely  ere  he  be 
stowed  word  or  look  on  the  bearer. 

"It's  main  safe,"  said  he  at  last,  "main  safe. 
Maybe  a  bit  scratched.  But  't  will  wear  off.  But 
wheer  hast  had  it?  Wert  in  a  fray?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Helpes,  laughing,  "  I'll  ne'er  tell 
thee  where  I've  been,  save  that  I've  walked  near 
three-score  miles  in  twenty-four  hours,  swam  the 
river  twice,  and  have  a  wondrous  longing  to  my 
supper.  Good-even  to  ye  all."  And  turning 
away,  he  soon  was  lost  sight. 

"Ah,  Suster  Annot,  a  bachelor  like  that's  worth 
any  maid's  having,"  said  Hinckley,  who  regarded 
his  sister,  some  fifteen  years  his  junior,  as  a  young 
and  marriageable  damsel.  "  I  hope  he's  na'  come 
by  much  harm.  Didst  see  his  sleeve?" 

"  Ay,  did  I,"  put  in  Batter,  "  and  it's  none  the 
same  jerkin  he  set  out  wi'  yesterday,  more  by 
token." 

"  He'll  ha'  bin  in  some  alehouse  brawl,  I  trow," 
said  Noorth. 

"  Nay,"  exclaimed  Hinckley,  grasping  the  bow, 
which  seemed  to  have  restoied  his  strength  and 
speech,  "  I'll  warrant  him  none  of  your  brawlers. 
He'll  ha'  got  the  hurt  in  some  good  cause,  such  as 
this  bow  were  first  bent  in,  when  Queen  Marget 
an'  her  son  — 

"  Nay,  if  thou's  for  that  tune  again,  I'll  dance 
off,"  snarled  Noorth,  rising  and  entering  the  house, 
whither  a  clanging  bell  soon  summoned  the  others. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"  Thus  shall  it  be  done  unto  the  man  whom  the  king  de- 
lighteth  to  honor."  — Book  of  Esther. 

WITH  the  first  peep  of  dawn  next  day,  Tewkes- 
bury  discovered  a  scene  of  unusual  animation,  the 
greater  part  of  the  humbler  sort,  both  male  and 
female,  being  busy  with  hoes,  brooms,  buckets, 
and  barrows  in  cleaning  Tewkesbury  High  Street, 
from  the  gates  to  the  town  hall.  As  this  task  had 
scarce  been  attempted,  much  less  achieved,  within 
the  memory  of  man,  it  well  needed  the  scores  of 
laborers  employed,  who  consoled  themselves  for 
their  unwonted  toil,  and  the  enforced  .silence 
which  would  prevail  later  in  the  day,  by  a  Babel 
of  gossip  and  clamor. 

"Kh,  goodwife  Barm,"  cried  a  ferryman,  hold 
ing  up  an  enormous  specimen  of  foot-gear  on  his 
rake,  "here's  one  o'  thy  owd  clouted  shoon,  I've 
digged  out  o'  t'  muck.  'Tis  well  seen  why  thou's 
gone  barefoot  these  three  year." 

"  Thou  liest,  thou  knave,"  returned  the  baker's 
wife,  flinging  the  remnant  of  water  in  her  bucket 
over  him,  "  'twould  make  two  o'  mine.  'Tis  thy 
wherry  laid  up  here  for  want  o'  use." 

A  laugh  at  the  expense  cf  the  ferryman,  who 
was  well  known  to  be  fonder  of  the  ale-can  than 
the  oar,  did  not  at  all  improve  his  temper,  and 
blows  seemed  imminent,  when  a  cry  was  raised, 
"  Here  they  come  !  "  and  two  parochial  officers 
were  seen  at  a  distance,  slowly  marching  down  the 


42  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

street,  apparently  to  examine  into  the  progress  of 
the  work. 

Parting  to  right  and  left  before  these  dignitaries, 
and  working  with  desperate  energy,  the  men  hurl 
ing  the  mud  into  alleys,  yards,  and  even  doorways, 
and  the  women  sluicing  the  stones  with  water,  the 
officials  found  the  street  before  them  in  a  fair  state 
of  cleanliness,  and  having  walked  slowly  to  the 
gates,  returned  at  the  same  pace  to  the  Hall,  be 
tween  the  ducking  and  grinning  lines  of  laborers. 

By  nine  o'clock  all  preparations  were  well  for 
ward.  The  conduit,  despite  Noorth's  prediction, 
was  really  running  wine  —  slowly  and  intermittent 
ly  indeed,  and  sending  forth  a  much  diluted  fluid 
which  some  of  the  bolder  spirits  did  not  scruple 
to  term  "  cask-rinsings,"  but  still  indubitably  wine. 

Our  friend  Noorth,  however,  was  possessed  of 
another  grievance.  The  sheriff's  wisdom  having 
conceived  that  her  Majesty's  envoy  could,  not  but 
be  pleased  with  a  sight  of  the  paupers  whom  they 
had  among  them,  the  six  who  could  go  on  foot 
were  ordered  out  to  form  a  part  of  the  show, 
instead  of  being  allowed  to  roam  whither  they 
would  :  and  being  set  closely  together  on  a  bench 
against  a  most  disreputable  breach  in  the  church 
porch,  performed  a  double  office.  Noorth  com 
plained  as  loudly  as  he  dared,  and  did  not  fail  to 
point  out  to  his  fellows  that  this  was  the  beginning 
of  their  slavery  under  the  new  order  of  things. 

By  ten,  the  procession  had  formed  in  the 
meadow  without  the  city  gates  ;  and  shortly  after 
ward  a  flourish  of  trumpets  announced  the  ap 
proach  of  the  Queen's  envoy,  Sir  Henry  Systen. 

The  sheriff  and  the  other  city  officials  awaited 
him  at  the  gates,  and  dutifully  presented  the  keys. 

Meanwhile  the  six  old  paupers  sat  in  their  places, 


THK    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKESBURV.  4;, 

holding  each  man  his  bow,  crutch,  or  staff,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  craning  their  necks  to  get  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  train. 

"  Ye  mun  tell  Symes  and  me  all  goes  by, 
Noorth,"  said  Paxon,  "  for  our  eyes  be  too  failed 
to  trust.'' 

"  Well,"  grumbled  Noorth,  "  here  coom'th  Sir 


Henry  Svsten,  as  be  Queen's  envoy,  \vi'  carter 
in'^  hand  — 

••  Where  be  t'  Oueen?  "  cried  Hinckley,  seizing 
his  bo\v,  and  starting  forward. 

'•  Sit  down,  ye  fool  !  Sit  down  !"  said  Noorth, 
"  hold  thy  ])cace,  and  doant  put  me  out  ;  we'll 
none  set'  t'  Oueen  to-day.  Next  is  t'  Bailey  as  is 
to  be,  wi'  two  lads  bearing  t'  gilt  swan  behind  him, 


44  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

as  is  whispering  good  words  in  's  ear.  Next  be 
the  gentry  o'  horse-back,  wi'  a  band  o'  hackbut- 
men.  And  here's  a  line  o'  townsmen  in  green. 
Eh  !  there's  young  Will  Helpes  among  'em,  in  a 
deal  better  trim  nor  he  were  yestreen." 

"  What  be  that  singing?  "  asked  old  Symes. 

"  'Tis  the  mustard-men,"  answered  Noorth. 

But  Tewkesbury's  chief  industry  demands  a 
more  particular  mention. 

First  came  James  Helpes,  Will's  father,  bearing 
the  golden*  pot  cf  mustard  which  was  to  be  sent 
to  the  Queen.  He  was  followed  by  two  youths 
carrying  vases  containing  plants  of  mustard  which 
had  been  reared  under  shelter  for  this  occasion. 
Next,  drawn  by  three  yellow  horses,  came  a  large 
open  cart,  on  which  stood  four  journeymen,  hard 
at  work.  One  was  grinding  the  mustard  seed, 
another  mixing  and  stirring  it  with  oil,  a  third 
making  it  up  into  balls,  which  the  fourth  now  and 
then  flung  among  the  crowd,  while  all  roared  lus 
tily  the  following  stave  : 

"  Here  \ve  stand  together  clustered, 
Round  our  fiery  English  mustard; 
French  and  Spaniard  long  have  blustered, 
But  they  fear  our  balls  of  mustard; 
Beef  and  venison,  pigeon,  bustard, 
All  are  better  for  our  mustard; 
'Sooth,  we'll  break  his  knavish  costard, 
Will  not  sing  the  praise  of  mustard  !  " 

"  There,"  said  Noorth,  when  the  cart  had  pass 
ed,  "  t'  halberd  men  and  bowyers  come  next,  and 
we  be  to  follow.  A  murrain  o'  those  who  thrust 
out  such  poor  bodies  for  their  own  pride  !  " 

The  paupers  accordingly  rose,  and  tottered  as 
well  as  they  could  the  short  distance  to  the  Town 
Hall,  which  entering,  they  were  provided  with 
seats  near  the  door. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  45 

The  Charter  having  been  read,  and  the  Bailiff 
installed,  it  remained  for  him  to  express  his  sense 
of  the  honor  thus  conferred,  which  he  did  some 
what  as  follows  : 

"  Right  Honorable  Sir,  and  Envoy  of  her  Most 
Gracious  Majesty  :  though  our  town  be  small,  yet 
doubt  not  but  it  holdeth  more  true  and  loyal  hearts 
than  another  in  England  ;  as  a  measure  of  mustard 
seed  containeth  more  hot  and  fiery  particles  than 
a  measure  of  any  other  corn,  though  twice  as  great ; 
in  some  proof  whereof,  we  offer  her  Majesty  this 
golden  pot,  with  the  fruit  of  our  industry :  and  for 
me,  that  am  set  as  the  first  pilot  of  so  goodly  a 
vessel,  1  trust  so  to  discharge  my  duty  as  not  to 
disgrace  the  choice  of  the  Queen,  whom  God 
preserve  !  " 

The  golden  mustard  pot  was  then  placed  before 
Sir  Henry,  who  replied  :  "Most  worshipful  Bailiff: 
Fear  not  but  we  think  you  shall  acquit  you  well 
in  this  your  charge,  as  indeed  you  shall  neither  be 
shamed  by  the  glory,  nor  puffed  up  by  the  mis 
carriage,  of  those  who  have  gone  before  you.  The 
welfare  of  this  town  lieth  near  her  Majesty's  heart, 
which  shall  be  cheered  by  the  report  of  your  loyalty, 
as  her  eyes  and  palate  by  your  fair  gift.  Well  do 
we  hope  that  Tewkesbury,  from  her  small  begin 
nings,  may  grow,  in  the  light  of  her  Majesty's 
favor,  as  her  own  mustard  plant,  unto  a  mighty 
stature.  And  so,  God  save  the  Queen  !  " 

Here  followed  great  shouting  and  hurling  up  of 
caps,  and  the  audience  dispersed  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  day  in  games,  feasting,  and  mirth. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"The  bitter  arrow  leaped  forth,  thirsting  to  drink  blood." 

—   II'  >MER. 

NEARLY  two  years  had  rolled  away  since  the 
events  last  related.  It  was  a  windy  August  even 
ing,  with  occasional  dashes  of  rain  and  rumblings 
of  distant  thunder,  and  again  Powdrell  strayed  in 
the  woods  of  Chariecote  park.  But  a  change  had 
passed  on  his  appearance,  and  a  still  greater  on 
his  manner.  His  clothing  and  face  showed  the 
marks  of  hardship  and  exposure,  his  shoulder  bore 
the  Lucy  badge  no  longer,  and  instead  of  the  bold 
and  confident  air  of  one  who  possesses  at  least 
partial  authority,  he  had  the  defiant  but  stealthy 
demeanor  of  a  trespasser.  He  followed  the  wind 
ings  of  the  little  stream  before  named  for  some 
distance,  until  he  reached  a  spot  where  it  widened 
into  a  small  marshy  pool.  Here  a  squat,  heavy 
fellow  of  most  forbidding  aspect  awaited  him. 

"  Well  met,  Master  Powdrell  !  "  said  he. 

"  I'm  none  so  sure  o'  that,"  replied  Powdrell. 
"  I  like  ill  to  turn  traitor  ;  and  I  am  half  i'  the 
mind  to  throw  the  job  up." 

"  Nay,  nay,  thee  '11  ne'er  do  that,"  said  the 
other,  soothingly.  "  Thou's  promised  us  a  score 
o'  birds  th'  night ;  and  all's  ready  for  taking  'em 
away.  We'n  none  do  wi'  out  thee,  thou  knows  the 
woods  so  well." 

"  I  did  know  the  wooas  well,'  said  the  ex- 
keeper,  "  but  now  I  seem  to  see  every  tree  o' 


THK    KAII.I1-T    OF    TEWKESBURY.  47 

another  side  than  I  did  afore.  An'  Sir  Tummas 
were  a  good  master  to  me  for  twelve  year." 

"  Nay,  but  to  turn  thee  off  at  last  for  a  bit  o' 
drinking,"  persisted  the  tempter,  "  sure  a'  de 
serves  to  lose." 

"  It  were  na'  that  alone,"  said  Powdrell,  "  but 
i'  th'  spring  J  overrid  one  o'  th'  horses  as  died. 
'Twere  o'  Sir  Tummas'  errand,  and  a'  could  na' 
say  th'  blame  were  mine  ;  but  it  gi'd  him  a  handle. 
Then  a  young  fawn,  broke  's  neck  on  a  tree.  'T 
were  out  o'  season,  the  flesh  were  na'  fit  for  gen 
try,  and  I  deemed  'twere  no  harm  to  sell  it  to 
some  country  folk,  and  pouch  th'  money.  But 
that  mean-hearted  rogue,  Tuff,  got  th'  tale  by  th' 
end  and  dressed  it  out  for  his  Worship.  And 
then,  as  ill  luck  would  ha'  it,  when  I  were  sent  for 
up  to  Hall  about  it,  i  had  drunk  more  than  I  were 
fit  to  carry.  So  wi't  all,  1  were  turned  out  o' 
place." 

As  he  ceased,  there  came  a  bright  flash  and  roll 
of  thunder,  nearer  than  before.  Powdrell  started 
and  winced.  The  other  looked  up  in  wonder. 

"Thou  ben't  feared,  sure,  for  a  flash  like  that?" 

"  Nay,"  replied  Powdrell,  "  a  wise  woman  told 
me,  twenty  years  agone,  that  J'd  die  by  a  blow 
from  heaven  ;  an'  I  think  on  't,  whiles,  when  t'  light 
ning  comes." 

"  I'd  best  leave  thee,"  said  the  stout  man. 
"What  wi'  pitym'  Sir  Tummus,  an'  fearin'  for  thy 
self,  thee's  fit  lor  naught." 

"  I'll  ne'er  be  called  coward,"  said  Powdrell, 
fiercely.  "  Come  on,  ha'  it  over  wi'  soon  as  may 
be  ;  an'  no  more  o'  that,  or  I'll  fell  thee." 

The  ill  assorted  companions  accordingly  pur 
sued  their  way  some  distance  further,  until  Pow 
drell,  stooping,  drew  a  net  closely  bundled  together 


40  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKF.SBURV. 

from  under  a  bush.  "  Here  't  be  ;  little  I  thought 
ever  to  come  to  this.  Now  follow  on." 

He  wound  about  to  left  and  right,  pressing 
swiftly  forward  as  if  desirous  of  shaking  off  his 
confederate,  who,  however,  stuck  closely  at  his 
heels,  until  they  rounded  a  thick  coppice,  and  saw 
befcre  them  tiie  pheasant-roost  —  the  forms  of 
the  birds  just  discernible  among  the  branches,  at 
something  more  than  a  man's  height  from  the 
ground. 

"  Be  we  to  knock  'em  down  now?  "  asked  the 
stranger,  looking  about  for  a  stick. 

"  Ay,  ye  fool  !  "  said  Powdrell,  "  knock  down 
one,  and  ha'  the  rest  take  wing.  I  know  a  better 
trick." 

Striking  a  light,  he  took  a  roll  of  sulphur  from 
his  pocket,  which  having  ignited,  he  placed  slightly 
to  windward  of  the  sleeping  birds,  so  that  the 
breeze,  broken  by  the  coppice,  carried  the  fumes 
among  them. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  as  the  first  bird  began  to  waver 
on  its  perch,  "be  handy  wi'  the  net — but  what's 
that?  More  o'  thy  fellows  coming?  " 

"  Nay,"  stammered  the  other,  "  I  bid  none 
come." 

"  It  '11  be  the  new  keepers,"  muttered  Powdrell, 
stamping  the  sulphur  into  the  ground,  "here  —  this 
way." 

They  retreated  a  short  distance,  but  soon  heard 
the  voices  of  a  second  party'. 

"We're  right  i'  their  track!  Nay  —  'tis  too 
late  to  run.  Set  thy  back  agen  a  tree,  move  not  a 
finger,  and  happen  they  '11  pass  us  by." 

This  plan  might  have  succeeded,  had  both  been 
equally  steady  of  nerve  ;  but  the  stout  man,  after 
holding  his  ground  a  few  moments,  finding  the 


THK    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESBURY.  49 

suspense  too  much  for  him,  slipped  round  his  tree 
just  as  three  figures  appeared,  and  took  to  his 
heels  with  a  frightful  crackling  of  dry  twigs.  Pow- 
drell,  seeing  concealment  was  useless,  started  for 
ward  ;  laying  an  arrow  on  his  bow-string. 

"Yield  thee  I"  shouted  the  others,  presenting 
their  pieces. 

"  Not  wi'out  a  blow,"  shouted  Powdrell  ;  and 
launching  the  shaft  at  his  adversaries,  he  snatched 
another  from  his  quiver.  The  arrow  found  its 
mark  in  the  breast  of  the  youngest  forester,  who 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"  He's  killed  him  !  He's  killed  t'  young  squire  !  " 
exclaimed  the  others,  falling  back  into  cover. 

Powdrell,  with  a  cry  of  horror,  fled,  he  knew 
not  whither.  When  he  recovered  his  senses,  he 
was  stretched  at  the  foot  of  an  oak. 

"  I  should  na'  be  lying  here  asleep,"  he  mut 
tered,  unable  at  first  to  collect  his  thoughts.  "  T' 
porchers  may  be  busy.  Kh  !  What  be  I  but  a 
porcher  myself?  an'  I  ha'  shot  Sir  Tummas'  son  !" 

A  faint  sound  of  voices  was  now  heard,  proceed 
ing  apparently  from  both  sides. 

"  They'll  ha'  brought  help  to  carry  him  away," 
he  murmured,  "  and  now  they've  come  for  me." 

Rising  on  his  feet,  he  drew  out  another  arrow, 
and  settling  himself  firmly,  stood  waiting,  with  an 
occasional  glance  upward.  The  confused  buzzing 
of  many  tongues  in  consultation  grew  louder  and 
louder,  until  it  was  evident  that  he  was  completely 
surrounded 

"  'Tis  an  ill  end,"  he  sighed,  "  but  might  be 
worse.  Now,  witch,  let  thy  words  come  true  !  " 

Drawing  his  string  to  the  utmost,  he  pointed  his 
shaft  to  the  zenith,  let  it  fly,  and  throwing  down 
his  bow,  stood  with  folded  arms.  Several  rushed 


5° 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 


forward  to  seize  him,  but  even  as  they  did  so,  the 
whiz  of  the  descending  missile  was  heard,  and  the 
arrow,  striking  fairly  on  his  crown,  stretched  him 
lifeless  upon  the  earth. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"The  daily  waiting  on  the  fractious  chair, 
The  nightly  vigil  by  the  feverish  bed.  " 

—  PRAED. 

THE  heir  of  Charlecote,  however,  was  not 
dead.  Suffering  from  a  severe  wound  in  the 
shoulder,  he  was  conveyed  to  his  father's  house, 
where  he  lay  for  many  days  in  fevered  agony. 

He  first  recovered  consciousness  on  a  fair 
September  evening.  The  light  of  sunset  shone 
through  the  window,  close  shut  and  curtained  as 
it  was,  and  enabled  him  to  distinguish  the  figure 
of  his  cousin  Dorothy,  sitting  by  the  table  with 
a  bit  of  lacework  in  her  hand,  occasionally  draw 
ing  a  long  sigh  of  distress,  as  she  breathed  the 
hot  stifling  air  then  considered  necessary  for  an 
invalid.  Warm  as  the  day  was,  a  huge  fire  blazed 
in  the  chimney,  while  screens  fenced  every  cre 
vice. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  wounded  youth  gazed  in 
silence,  and  then  faltered  out,  "  Drink,  Dorothy, 
drink  !  " 

"  Oh,  cousin  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  springing 
up  "  thou'rt  surely  better  I  Oh,  how  glad — 

"Drink,  I  tell  thee  !"  repeated  the  sufferer,  in 
a  tone  as  imperious  as  his  feeble  voice  could 
command  ;  and  1  )orothy,  softly  approaching  the 
bedside,  poured  out  a  spoonful  of  some  liquid,  and 
held  it  to  his  lips. 

"More,  more!"  he  gasped,  swallowing  it 
eagerly. 


52  1H..    IJAIMFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  Nay,  cousin,  I  dare  not.  The  leech  forbade  it. 
I  will  call  my  aunt.  I  did  but  take  her  place  for 
an  hour." 

"What  said  the  leech  of  me?"  asked  the 
invalid. 

"He  said  there  was  hope,  but  thou  must  be 
still." 

"  'Tis  well,"  replied  Thomas  ;  and  closing  his 
eyes,  remained  perfectly  quiet,  while  Dorothy 
slipped  away  to  her  aunt. 

The  young  man's  improvement  was  steady, 
though  not  rapid  ;  and  before  many  days  he  was 
pronounced  out  of  danger.  His  convalescence  was 
slow,  however,  and  his  arm  useless  for  some  time  ; 
and  every  device  that  could  amuse  an  exacting  and 
capricious  temper  was  called  into  play.  It  soon 
became  evident  that  while  no  one  perfectly  suc 
ceeded  in  the  task  of  diverting  him,  Dorothy  could 
do  so  best  and  longest.  With  his  father  he  had 
very  little  in  common,  and  Sir  Thomas's  loud 
voice  and  heavv  step  jarred  en  his  son's  weakened 
nerves.  Lady  Lucy  had  never  been  a  good  reader 
or  a  quick  observer,  and  her  well-meant  efforts  to 
improve  the  occasion  were  unwelcome.  But 
Dorothy  was  ever  ready  to  read  when  her  cousin 
demanded  it,  in  a  clear  soft  voice,  was  never  vexed 
when  he  silenced  her  ;  while  the  graphic  manner 
in  which  she  would  narrate  the  trivial  events  of 
the  day,  or  the  news  brought  by  an  occasional 
visitor,  made  her,  whom  hitherto  he  had  noticed 
but  little,  an  object  of  considerable  interest  in  his 
eyes.  Lady  Lucy  viewed  this  companionship  with 
mingled  pleasure  and  alarm,  and  resolved  to  bring 
it  to  an  end  as  soon  as  settled  health  should  make 
her  son  a  person  to  be  either  crossed  or  reasoned 
with. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  5^ 

"  In  faith,  Dorothy,"  said  Thomas  one  day,  after 
she  had  permitted  him  to  win  a  game  of  spillikins, 
in  spite  of  his  unfair  play,  and  then  read  "  Ogier 
the  ]  )ane  "  to  him  ior  an  hour,  "a  man  might  do 
worse  than  have  thee  always  near,  to  hearten  him 
up." 

"Nay,  cousin,"  replied  Dorothy,  "  'Tis  but 
little  1  can  do, and  1  am  well  repaid  if  it  can  make 
thee  forget  thy  pain  awhile." 

"  True,  thou  canst  do  little,  but  'tis  done 
willingly.  Go  on  with  thy  Ogier.  I  would  I  had 
had  his  shield  in  the  park,  to  ience  me  against  yon 
villain's  arrow." 

"  Dorothy  grows  a  fair  maid,"  he  observed  to 
his  mother  next  day. 

"True,  son,''  she  answered,  "'Twill  soon  be 
time  for  her  to  wed.  Thy  father  speaks  of  Master 
Wardell's  son." 

"  What,  madam,"  cried  Thomas  starting,  "hath 
she  a  liking  to  him  ?  " 

"Nay,  I  trust  not,"  replied  I.ady  Lucy.  "It 
were  not  seemly  she  should.  Perchance  they  may 
have  seen  each  other  at  the  hunting  last  winter. 
But  the  stripling  is  well  spoken  of,  and  thy  father 
will  see  that  she  goes  not  dowerless." 

"  Nay,  if  every  maid  of  the  Lucy  name  is  to  look 
to  Sir  Thomas  for  a  portion,  he  bids  fair  to  go  cold 
himself,"  muttered  the  youth, 

"  Son,  1  like  not  this,"  said  his  mother  gravely. 
"  '  T \viil  be  but  a  fev/  pounds,  that  Sir  Thomas 
can  well  spare.  Sure,  thou  dost  not  grudge  it 
her?" 

"  I  grudge  naught  but  this  valiant  grief  in  mine 
arm,"  answered  the  you"g  man  ;  and  his  mother's 
anxiety  being  thus  aroused,  the  subject  of  matri 
mony  was  dropped  for  a  while. 


54  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

But  Thomas  had  now  a  new  theme  for  medita 
tion.  Dorothy,  whom  he  had  long  regarded  as  a 
permanent  fixture  in  the  house,  and  whose  use  to 
himself  had  lately  become  so  apparent,  was  now, 
it  seemed,  in  a  fair  way  to  change  her  home  ;  and 
not  only  this,  but  to  carry  some  portion  of  the 
Lucy  wealth  with  her.  Before  he  slept,  he  re 
solved  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  her  on 
the  morrow. 

The  next  day  was  wet  and  gloomy,  and  the  in 
valid's  spirits  correspondingly  low ;  but  when 
Dorothy,  after  a  solitary  game  of  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  in  the  gallery,  entered  flushed  and 
sparkling,  the  clouds  within  doors  were  quite  swept 
away.  Thomas  looked  up  in  astonishment,  and 
vowed  silently  he  had  never  seen  a  lovelier  girl. 

"  Prithee,  Dorothy,"  said  he,  after  the  usual 
inquiries  as  to  his  health,  "fetch  thy  lute,  and  sing 
to  me  a  while  ;  I  am  not  in  humor  for  the  book 
to-day." 

Dorothy's  voice  was  one  of  those  intended  for 
a  single  hearer  :  sweet  and  fresh,  but  untrained 
and  weak.  Her  cousin  was  in  no  critical  mood, 
and  as  she  sang  the  few  ballads  she  knew,  some 
thing  like  affection  stirred  in  his  heart. 

'"The  willow-tree,'  Dorothy,"  said  heat  length. 
The  maiden  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  began 
the  song  he  desired.  The  plaintive  ditty  was  too 
much  for  her,  however ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
last  verse  her  voice  failed,  and  the  tears  began  to 
flow.  Thomas  was  quickly  at  her  side. 

"Dorothy,  sweet,"  said  he,  "  what  ails  thee?  I 
sought  not  to  make  thee  weep." 

"  'Twas  the  song  —  t'was  the  song  ! "  said 
Dorothy,  wiping  away  her  tears.  "  I  was  foolish 
—  heed  it  not." 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESI5URY.  55 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  but  be  moved  when  thou 
grievest.  Come,  'tis  but  a  few  silly  jangling 
words  —  think  on 't  no  more.  I  have  weightier 
matter  in  hand.  Dost  love  me,  Dorothy?  " 

"Surely  I  love  thee,  cousin,"  the  girl  replied 
wondering. 

"  Not  '  I  love  thee,  cousin?  that  last  word  spoils 
all.  Come,  be  not  coy,  but  listen.  Wilt  wed  me, 
and  be  I.ady  of  Charlecote?  " 

"  I  had  not  thought  thou  wouldst  put  such  a 
jest  upon  an  orphan  maid,"  said  Dorothy,  rising 
proudly,  and  offering  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Tis  no  jest,  Dorothy  ;  I  speak  sad  tongue  : 
Come,  give  me  thy  answer." 

"  Nay,  cousin —  if  in  sooth  thou  mean'st  me  the 
honor  —  nay,  it  can  never  be." 

"Tut,  tut,,"  said  Thomas,  smiling  confidently, 
"  I  was  ready  for  this.  I  know  what  a  maid's  nay- 
say  means.  \Vell  I  wot  thy  father,  tho"  our  dis 
tant  cousin,  was  a  broken,  landless  man,  and  thy 
mother  but  a  yeoman's  daughter —  that  thou  owest 
all  to  Sir  Thomas,  and  hast  not  a  groat  to  thy 
dowry.  But  what  then  ?  Never  a  Lucy  yet  was 
niggard  of  soul,  or  aught  but  generous  to  those  be 
neath  him.  Come,  an  end  of  this.  Say  thou  wilt 
have  me  to  thy  husband." 

"Thy  mother — thy  father—  '  said  the  girl, 
controlling  her  rising  temper,  "  how  would  they 
brook  thy  wedding  one  so  mean  and  humble  as 
thou  hast  named  me  ?  " 

"Ah,  sits  the  wind  there?"  said  Thomas,  with 
an  embarrassed  laugh.  "  Faith,  I  have  thought  on 
't  myself.  'Twill  not  be  one  word  or  two  will 
quiet  them  ;  and  I  know  they  looked  higher  for 
me.  Sir  Thomas  was  ne'er  the  man  to  give  up  all 
for  love,  as  I  have  done  ;  and  he  will  stamp  and 


56  I  HE    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKESBURY. 

swear  a  while,  no  doubt.  Lut  when  all's  said  and 
done,  he  cannot  get  another  son  and  heir ;  and  if 
I  talk  a  space  of  going  to  the  Spanish  wars,  my 
mother  will  droop  her  flag.  We  shall  find  a  way, 
Dorothy  — we  shall  find  a  way." 

"Spare  all  this  trouble,"  exclaimed  Dorothy, 
with  a  flame  in  her  eyes.  "  Thomas  Lucy,  I  will 
never  wed  thee  —  never  —  never  !  " 

The  youth  stared  contemptuously. 

"  Thou  hast  been  at  these  new  fashioned  play- 
books,  I  see,"  said  he,  "  but  methinks  thou  hast 
chosen  thy  part  rarely  ill.  Mayst  try  my  patience 
too  far.  A  proffer  of  marriage  is  a  tender  babe 
-  'twill  abide  nor  storm  nor  heat." 

"  Let  it  die  and  be  buried,  then,"  retorted  the 
girl,  "  only  so  can  I  ever  think  well  of  thee  again. 
Speak  no  more  to  me  of  this.  In  time,  I  may  for 
get  thy  words." 

"  Think  well,  Dorothy  —  venture  not  too  far. 
Dost  really  mean  to  refuse  the  luck  hath  come  in 
thy  way?  " 

"  In  truth  I  do  ;   nor  shall  I  ever  call  it  luck." 

"  'Tis  well —  very  well, —  "  uttered  her  cousin, 
biting  his  nails  and  glowering  at  the  floor.  "  A 
Lucy  of  Charlecote  waits  cap  in  hand  on  no  one. 
Ay,  this  is  to  set  a  beggar  on  horseback.  Twas 
but  yesterday  my  lady  mother  told  me  how  a  fair 
match  had  been  carved  out  for  thee  —  ay,  and  a 
fair  portion  too,  as  perchance  thou  knew'st.  And 
thus  loaded  with  favor,  thou  hast  dared  to  —  to 
— "  Not  being  able  exactly  to  define  Dorothy's 
offence,  he  went  off"  on  another  course.  "  I  would 
I  knew  who  hath  forestalled  me.  Is  't  this  same 
Wardell?  or  some  squire  of  dames  at  Warwick, 
when  my  father  carried  thee  to  see  the  players 
there?  or  one  of  the  players  themselves?  Faith, 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKKSBURY. 


57 


this  parish  is  become  their  best  recruiting  ground. 
Tis  not  long  since  that  scurvy  thieving  rogue, 
Shakespeare,  fled  away  to  join  a  band  of  the  knaves 
at  London." 

"  Cousin,    I    have   borne    this    too    long,"  said 


<  \ 


Dorothy,  taking  up  her  lute.  "  Thou  mayst  rail  at 
me,  but  I  prithee  hold  thy  peace  on  better  men 
than  thyself." 

"  Better  men  !  what  means  she?  Dost  speak  of 
this  same  Shakespeare  ?  I  mind  me  now,  thou  wast 
in  the  hall  at  his  trial  —  thou  didst  smile  when  Sir 


5 8  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

Thomas  told  of  his  escape  —  this  is  why  thou  art 
ever  poring  on  play  books,  and  looking  for 
players.  Why,  thou  silly  fool,  he  hath  wife  and 
babes "  —  Dorothy  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands —  "  and  hath  he  dared  to  look  to  thee  ?  By 
this  light,  I'll  have  his  blood  !  Ellis—  Ellis  !  "  he 
shouted,  raising  his  voice  till  the  walls  rang. 

The  deaf  old  woman,  who  waited  near  the  door, 
came  tottering  forward. 

"Your  honor's  pleasure?" 

"  Bid  Dickon  saddle  the  roan  horse  —  have  my 
boots  ready  below  —  fetch  me  a  cup  of  wine." 
He  turned  a  moment  to  the  cabinet,  and  took  out 
some  money,  while  the  domestic  hobbled  away. 
"  Fare  thee  well,  Dorothy,  thou  shalt  soon  hear 
brave  news  from  London  !  "  he  exclaimed,  and, 
snatching  his  sword  and  cloak,  rushed  from  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"Slightit  love  is  sair  to  bide." 

—  BURNS. 

LADY  LUCY,  who  had  been  visiting  some  old  and 
infirm  folk  at  the  village,  entered  the  Hall  on  one 
side  as  her  son  left  it  on  the  other.  Unaware  of 
his  departure,  she  tranquilly  proceeded  to  her  own 
room,  her  little  dog  trotting  after,  and  the  basket 
on  her  arm,  which  had  gone  forth  loaded  with 
cakes  and  pottage,  now  filled  with  dried  herbs  and 
flowers  by  those  who  had  nothing  else  to  give. 

Having  laid  aside  her  cloak  and  hood,  she  went 
to  her  son's  apartments.  Even  then,  had  she 
looked  from  the  south  window,  she  might  have 
seen  his  rapidly  diminishing  figure,  as  his  horse 
bore  him  down  the  London  road ;  but  she  passed 
on,  and  a  grove  soon  hid  the  rider's  form. 

She  entered  the  ante-room,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  it  empty  and  disordered.  An  overthrown 
chair  —  the  open  cabinet  —  one  or  two  books 
and  papers  lying  on  the  floor  —  seemed  to  indicate 
a  scene  of  some  kind.  She  passed  on  into  the 
bed- room  —  that  also  was  vacant.  Hastily  sum 
moning  a  maid,  she  bade  her  go  down  to  the 
stables  and  offices,  and  see  if  her  son  were  there, 
while  she  herself  looked  through  the  upper  floor. 
Her  search  was  vain,  and  the  girl  soon  came  hurry 
ing  back. 

"  Hast  found  him?"  asked  the  mistress. 

"  Nay,  my  Lady  —  but  John  groom,  he  do  say, 
as  how  Naunt  Ellis  came  some  half  hour  gone  wi' 

5  59 


60  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

word  for  Dickon  to  saddle  t'  young  red  horse.  An' 
scarce  were  he  at  door,  when  t'  young  squire 
came  out  booted  and  spurred,  as  he  haven't  put 
foot  over  threshold  sin'  a'  were  brought  in  hurt  a 
month  agone  as  ever  were.  An'  then  a'  got  to 
horse,  and  drank  t'  cup  as  Naunt  brought  him, 
an'  away  a'  went  down  t'  road  fast  as  beast  could 
lay  legs  to  ground." 

'•  Left  he  no  word  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  a'  said,  says  John,  'Tell  Sir  Tummas  I  ha' 
gear  in  hand  may  keep  me  three  days  or  four.' 
An'  Mistress  Dorothy  leanin'  fro'  t'  window,  wi' 
face  as  white  as  her  kerchief  — 

"Enough,"  said  Lady  Lucy.  "Thou  mayst  go 
now.  Perchance  he  hath  ridden  to  the  races." 
And  waiting  until  the  staring  girl  had  left,  she  took 
the  way  to  Dorothy's  room.  Here  her  first  sum 
mons  met  no  response  ;  but  at  length  her  niece, 
pale,  tearful  and  terrified,  opened  the  door. 

"Dorothy,"  said  the  aunt,  "come  with  me.  I 
must  hold  some  converse  with  thee."  And  she  led 
the  way  to  her  own  room,  where  she  seated  herself 
in  the  great  chair,  while  Dorothy  leaned  against 
the  wail. 

"  Dorothy,"  began  Lady  Lucy,  after  her  lips  had 
moved  silently  a  few  moments,  "  said  my  son  aught 
to  thee  wherefore  he  left  the  Hall?  " 

Dorothy  remained  speechless. 

"  Speak,"  said  her  aunt.  "  Thou  knowest  I  would 
not  ask  thee  of  his  comings  or  goings  at  a  common 
time,  as  'twere  a  child  ;  but  he  hath  lost  blood,  he 
is  still  weak,  he  spake  of  pain  in  his  wound  but 
yesterday. —  Hast  been  with  him  to-day?" 

"  Yea,  my  Lady." 

"And  did  he  speak  wildly?  Dost  think  .the 
fever  had  come  on  him  again?  " 


TtfK    HAII.1KK    OK    TF.WKESBURY.  6 1 

"Yea  —  nay,  I  think  —  I  think  he  had  no 
fever." 

''Then  why  went  he?     Dost  not  know?" 

"  He  —  he  went  to  London.  He  wished  to  see 
the  players  there,"  equivocated  the  girl. 

"The  players?  He  never  loved  stage  plays,  nor 
ia  sooth  do  I.  And  to  go  at  such  a  time,  and  in 
such  haste  —  was  he  in  spirits?  or  had  aught 
crossed  him  ?  " 

Dorothy,  fearing  she  had  already  said  too  much, 
remained  silent  a  moment,  and  then  began  to  sob 
convulsively. 

"  Niece,"  said  Lady  Lucy,  "  I  know  not  what 
thou  mean'st  ;  this  is  too  great  a  coil  for  me.  Sir 
Thomas  will  shortly  return,  and  he  must  speak 
with  thee.  Until  then,  go  to  thy  room." 

Dorothy  crept  away  to  her  chamber,  where  she 
spent  an  hour  in  painful  musings.  The  moment 
she  had  gazed  on  Shakespeare  had  fixed  his  face 
indelibly  on  her  memory.  She  had  never  for 
gotten  the  look  of  those  wonderful  eyes,  and  her 
maiden  fancy  had  created  an  ideal  of  his  person 
ality  upon  which  she  had  loved  to  dwell.  I, ike 
the  first  blush  of  the  early  dawn  it  had  illumined 
her  soul,  intangible,  pure,  innocent  as  the  dreams 
of  childhood,  and  into  this  mystic  region  her 
cousin's  rough  speech  seemed  to  force  itself  like 
some  harsh  and  unwelcome  intruder.  No  thought 
of  the  stranger  as  a  possible  lover  had  entered  her 
mind,  but  she  felt  instinctively  that  none  would 
comprehend  her,  and  disgrace  might  attach  to 
any  mention  of  her  feelings.  As  soon  would  she 
see  the  sun  darkened  as  sully  the  fair  image  of 
her  thought.  Thus  tossed  in  spirit  she  waited, 
and  had  reached  no  determination  when  a  knock 


62  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

was  heard  without,  and  a  voice  summoned  her  to 
her  uncle's  presence. 

The  Squire  and  his  lady  sat  side  by  side,  in  the 
north  parlor,  looking  graver  and  sterner  than 
Dorothy  had  ever  seen  them  both  at  once,  and 
her  first  thought  was,  "  How  did  I  ever  dare  to 
laugh  and  jest  in  their  presence,  or  call  them  Aunt 
and  Uncle?" 

Bidding  the  serving  man,  who  had  brought  her 
down,  place  a  chair  and  go,  Sir  Thomas  began  in 
a  cold  unnatural  voice,  apparently  assumed  as 
being  equally  removed  from  anger  or  kindness. 

"  Dorothy  Lucy,  old  Ellis  hath  told  us  that  my 
son  and  thou  met  this  morning ;  that  thou  didst 
sing  to  him  ;  that  in  a  while  she  heard  voices  in 
anger,  tho'  she  caught  not  the  words  ;  that  at  last 
he  bade  fetch  his  boots,  and  a  stirrup  cup,  and 
saddle  a  horse  ;  and  then  rode  away.  What  sayst 
to  this?  Why  did  ye  quarrel?" 

Again  Dorothy  was  silent. 

"  Speak  ;   didst  thou  bid  him  go?  " 

"  Nay,  truly." 

"  Then  what  took  him  ?  Thou  hast  said  he 
went  to  the  players ;  but  did  he  tell  thee  no 
more?  " 

The  girl  could  not  reply. 

"  If  thou  hast  driven  him  from  his  reason  and 
his  home  by  any  charm,  or  spell,  or  philter,  be 
sure  thou  shall  sorely  repent.  Dost  remember  the 
witch  was  taken  last  year?  " 

Dorothy  shuddered  and  trembled. 

"  Nay,  Sir  Thomas,"  said  the  lady,  "  fright  her 
not  thus.  She  is  yet  young." 

"  I  meant  not  to  harm  her.  An  she  would 
but  speak,  none  would  be  kinder  than  I.  Come, 
niece,"  softening  his  tone,  "tell  us  the  truth. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  63 

Mayhap  the  lad  hath  made  thee  some  silly  flattery, 
and  then  ridden  away,  and  thou  weep'st  for  his 
going.  Is't  so?  " 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Dorothy,  feeling  she  must 
answer,  "  thou  hast  ever  been  kind  and  good  to 
me  ;  I  grieve  to  trouble  thee.  'Twas  not  of  my 
will  thy  son  went ;  I  pray  he  may  come  to  no 
harm ;  but  I  wept  not  for  his  going,  for  I  love  him 
not ;  nor  can  I  tell  his  errand." 

Her  judges  looked  at  each  other. 

"She  speaks  riddles,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "but 
must  tell  them  ere  long.  'Tis  hard  to  lose  son  and 
niece  in  one  day,  for  I  loved  her  well,  and  I 
thought  to  give  her  a  bridal  would  not  have 
shamed  my  daughter.  But  now,  ungracious,  flout 
ing  wench  !  she  will  not  speak  out  fair,  and  she 
loves  him  not,  forsooth  !  let  her  wait  till  she  be 
asked  !  Get  thee  to  thy  chamber  !  Thou  shalt 
have  four  and  twenty  hours  to  think  on't ;  then,  if 
my  son  comes  not  back,  thou  must  tell  truth,  or  it 
shall  be  worse  for  thee.  Go,  I  say  ! "  And 
Dorothy  fled  hastily  from  the  parlor. 


CHAPTER   XL 

"  Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her?" 

—  MILTON. 

DOROTHY  spent  her  evening  alone,  and  rested 
ill ;  but  before  she  slept  had  arrived  at  a  great  de 
cision. 

"I  must  leave  Charlecote  Hall,'1  she  said  to 
herself.  "  1  cannot  answer  my  uncle  as  he  would 
have  me,  nor  abide  his  anger  if  1  continue  silent. 
I  will  go  to  Tewkesbury  and  find  Nurse  Hinckley. 
Surely  she  will  take  me  in,  and  teach  me  some 
way  to  live  for  a  time  ;  perchance  my  cousin  will 
repent  of  his  purpose  and  return.  Then  my  uncle 
will  be  good  to  me  again.  r\  he  country  folk  have 
ever  demeaned  themselves  well  to  me,  and  I  have 
oft  heard  say  Tewkesbury  was  1  ut  a  day's  journey- 
hence. "  (In  truth,  Dorothy,  after  the  death  of 
her  parents  in  her  infancy,  had  been  nursed  by 
Dame  Hinckley  at  Tewkesbury  until  her  fifth  year, 
when  Sir  Thomas  and  his  lady  had  taken  her 
thence,  and  reared  her  as  their  own.) 

With  the  first  peep  of  dawn  Dorothy  was  awake, 
rejoiced  to  find  that  the  day  promised  to  be  fair. 
After  commending  herself  fervently  to  the  care  of 
Heaven,  she  put  en  a  plain  dark  gown  and  her 
strongest  foot-gear,  made  up  her  treasured  pearl- 
earrings  and  two  pieces  of  gold  Sir  Thomas  had 
given  her  into  a  close  parcel,  which  she  placed  in 
her  bosom.  A  few  small  coins,  which  she  thought 
would  be  sufficient  for  the  day's  expenses,  were  in 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEVv'KESBURY.  65 

the  pouch  at  her  girdle.  A  muffler,  and  short 
cloak  with  hood,  completed  her  array. 

Prepared  for  the  journey,  she  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  door  and  looked  around  the  bovver 
she  had  inhabited  for  twelve  happy  years.  There 
hung  her  pretty  gowns  (she  wondered  if  she 
should  ever  wear  them  again),  there  l.iy  her  lute, 
with  one  string  broken,  which  she  had  struck 
against  the  wall  when  hastening  from  her  cousin's 
room  ;  and  there,  an  unfinished  piece  of  embroid 
ery. 

Turning  away  with  a  sigh,  she  stepped  lightly 
down  the  hall  till  she  came  to  the  chamber  of  her 
uncle  and  aunt.  Here  she  paused  a  moment,  and 
then  kissed  the  panel  of  the  door. 

"They  were  ever  kind  to  me,"  she  whispered, 
"and  sure  they  will  be  again." 

Softly  descending  the  stairs,  she  let  herself  out 
at  a  side  door,  and  at  sunrise  was  a  mile  from  the 
Hall.  Concerning  Tewkesbury  she  had  many 
indistinct  memories,  and  but  two  correct  ideas. 
One  of  these  was,  that  it  lay  upon  the  Avon;  the 
other,  that  it  was  within  a  day's  journey.  But 
what  constituted  a  day's  journey  she  had  yet  to 
learn. 

While  in  the  neighborhood  of  Charlecote,  where 
her  face  was  known,  her  progress  was  not  unpleas 
ant.  The  few  laborers  whom  ^he  met  going  early 
to  their  work  touched  their  hats  respectfully,  and 
a  milkmaid,  coming  from  the  pasture  with  her 
steaming  pails,  was  but  too  happy  to  supply  the 
young  lady  with  a  draught,  which,  with  a  cake  of 
bread  saved  from  supper,  made  a  tolerable  break 
fast. 

It  was  a  glorious  autumn  morning.  A  few  high 
clouds  drifted  across  the  heavens,  the  Avon  flashed 


66  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

and  glittered  in  the  sun  among  the  willow  copses, 
and  the  thick  foliage,  not  yet  crisped  by  frost,  and 
fresh  from  yesterday's  showers,  rivalled  the  bravery 
of  May.  Dorothy  felt  that  her  adventure  would 
prosper,  and  wondered  she  had  entertained  any 
misgivings. 

As  she  proceeded  further  from  her  uncle's  do 
main,  however,  the  demeanor  of  the  peasants 
began  to  alter.  At  that  period  it  was  for  the 
stranger  to  prove  that  he  was  not  an  enemy  ;  and 
those  who  could  not  compel  respect  were  likely  to 
want  it.  First  with  astonishment,  and  then  with 
alarm,  Dorothy  marked  the  increasing  surliness  of 
the  cottagers  of  whom  she  asked  her  way  ;  and 
after  one  old  beldam  had  driven  her  from  the  door 
with  coarse  abuse,  and  another  had  threatened  to 
set  the  dogs  on  her,  she  felt  that  the  river  would 
be  her  best  guide,  and  determined  not  to  lose 
sight  of  it  again.  This,  however,  necessitated 
various  short  cuts  across  the  water  meadows,  in 
one  of  which  she  almost  lost  her  shoes,  and  was 
sadly  be  mi  red. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  harvest,  and  all  the 
villagers  who  could  be  afoot,  and  some  who  could 
not,  were  out  to  shear  the  corn.  Almost  every 
grainfield  she  passed  was  full  of  busy  life.  In 
some  the  reapers  were  just  beginning  their  task, 
in  others  completing  it :  here  the  laborers  were 
setting  and  capping  the  shocks ;  and  there  the 
wains  were  already  busy  drawing  them  to  the 
stack-yard.  Dorothy  would  have  rejoiced  in  the 
sight  a  few  days  before,  but  now,  as  she  plodded 
heavily  along  the  miry  lanes,  she  almost  envied  the 
harvesters  for  being  near  their  homes. 

It  was  about  ten  in  the  morning,  when,  sorely 
weary,  she  stopped  under  a  great  tree  to  watch 


THE     BAILIFF    OF    TEWKKSBURY.  67 

one  such  company.  Some  fifteen  couples  of  men 
and  women  were  coming  clown  the  slope,  laying 
low  the  yellow  corn  before  them  ;  the  man  in  each 
case  bent  to  his  work  with  a  curious  diving 
motion,  like  an  Indian  swimming,  gathering  the 
stalks  together  with  his  left  arm,  and  then,  quickly 
ripping  his  sickle  through  the  straw,  Hinging  it 
sideways  to  the  woman,  who  snatched  it  together, 
and  bound  it  into  sheaves.  Behind  them  walked 
the  steward,  watching  that  none  lagged,  and  ex 
amining  the  sheaves  for  ill-made  bands,  while  after 
him  a  score  of  gleaners,  old  folk  and  children, 
pounced  on  every  scattered  stem,  and  gradually 
accumulated  bundles  of  their  own. 

As  Dorothy  lingered,  the  overseer,  pausing  in 
his  march,  and  glancing  up  at  the  sun,  cried 
'•  Howd  your  hand  !  "  Instantly  work  was  dropped, 
and  the  peasants,  clustering  together,  and  bringing 
forth  their  luncheon,  began  to  eat  with  all  the  zest 
of  careless  toil. 

Dorothy  squeezed  through  the  hedgerow,  and 
gazed  wistfully  at  the  food  the  nearest  group  of 
half-clad,  half-savage  women  were  devouring,  but, 
warned  by  recent  experience,  durst  not  ask. 
Presently,  however,  one  of  them,  after  a  look  or 
two  in  her  direction,  arose,  and  bringing  her  half 
a  loaf  on  a  bunch  of  fresh  leaves,  together  with  a 
wooden  cup  of  ale,  asked,  "  If  she  would  be  pleased 
to  taste  their  fare." 

Dorothy  thanked  her,  declined  the  ale,  but  ate 
of  the  coarse  gritty  loaf  with  more  relish  than 
might  have  been  expected.  The  woman  stood 
waiting  by.  Dorothy  looked  at  her  form,  scarcely 
covered  by  the  rags  she  wore,  her  shoulders  and 
arms  burnt  and  tanned  by  the  sun,  her  wrists  and 
hands  rough  and  raw  with  binding  the  sheaves. 
"Art  not  very  weary?"  asked  the  girl. 


68 


THE    15AILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY, 


"Weary,  Mis'ess?"  said  the  woman,  with  a 
bright  smile.  "What?  wi'  savin'  the  good  corn? 
Nay,  nay  ;  'tis  like  gold  to  huz.  Ne'er  a  finer 
har'st  can  I  mind  ;  th'  rood  in  our  home  croft  be 
all  sheared  ;  an'  what  wi'  that  an'  (laffer's  gleanin', 
we'll  ha'  bread  till  Lady  day  of  our  own  hand. 
Nor  t'  loaf  will  be  none  so  dear  for  poor  folk  as 
has  to  buy.  Kh,  but  three  year  agone  were  a  hard 


time.  Ye'll  be  fro'  t'  great  house  ?  "  Dorothy 
nodded.  "Then  ye'll  mind  t'  winter.  I  lost  two 
bairns,  an'  me  an'  my  master  were  nigh  clammed." 

"  Is  thy  husband  here  ?  " 

"Ay,  Mis'ess  ;  we  be  all  here.  There's  feyther 
an'  my  eldest  lad  wi'  th'  gleaners ;  here's  my  two 
little  uns,"  pointing  to  two  young  children  asleep 
on  a  tattered  cloak,  "and  yon's  my  goodman," 
nodding  at  a  burly  shock-headed  fellow,  who 


THF.    BAILIFF    OF    TF.tt'KKSBL'RV.  69 

grinned  and  tugged  his  forelock  on  catching  the 
lady's  eye.  "  Hut  time  be  up  —  I  inun  go." 

The  steward  cried  "  Strike  in  I  "  and  all  sprang 
to  their  work  again.  Dorothy  bent  over  the 
babies,  tucked  a  silver  penny  into  the  hand  of 
each,  and  went  on  her  way. 

Gradually  the  grain  fields  became  fewer,  as  her 
road  lay  over  a  succession  of  low  wooded  hills, 
each  a  little  higher  than  the  last.  Here  she  met 
with  a  hideous  and  importunate  cripple,  who  could 
make  very  good  speed  on  his  crutches,  who  pur 
sued  her  a  long  way,  first  with  entreaties  and  then 
with  demands,  and  from  whom  she  finally  escaped 
only  by  scattering  most  of  her  money  on  the 
ground,  and  fleeing  while  he  gathered  it  up. 

Footsore  and  trembling,  she  gained  the  top  of 
another  hill,  and  looked  down  on  a  scene  of 
matchless  beauty.  A  broad  fair  vale  lay  before 
her,  with  gardens  and  orchards  smiling  to  the  sun, 
the  Avon  flowing  gently  in  the  midst,  and  on  its 
further  bank  a  goodly  town,  which  must  surely  be 
Tewkesbr.ry.  True  it  was  that  the  river  seemed 
less  than  she  remembered  it,  nor  did  the  tall 
square  tower  which  rose  from  tile  and  thatch  recall 
the  Abbey  :  but  she  set  this  down  to  the  imperfect 
judgment  of  childhood,  and  felt  wondrously 
cheered  to  think  she  had  accomplished  her  journey 
a  little  after  noonday. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"  Come,  Sir,  throw  us  that  you  have  about  you." 

—  SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  river  was  yet  to  be  crossed,  and  two  small 
coins  remained  of  her  store,  which  she  hoped 
would  content  the  ferryman.  But  between  her 
and  the  probable  position  of  the  ferry  stood  an 
alehouse  hight  the  "Monster";  and  round  its 
door  slouched  a  group  of  brutal-looking  fellows, 
whom  she  feared  to  pass.  Hidden  in  a  thicket 
by  the  road  side,  she  was  debating  whether  to 
make  a  circuit  through  the  fields,  or  wait  for  the 
loungers  to  disperse,  when  a  horse  was  brought 
round,  and  a  gentleman,  judging  by  his  habit, 
issued  from  the  tavern.  Hoping  that  this  person's 
presence  would  be  a  restraint  on  the  others,  she 
set  forward  hastily.  But  the  traveller,  mounting 
more  quickly  than  she  had  expected,  and  throwing 
a  penny  to  the  groom,  came  cantering  up  the  hill 
at  the  best  pace  he  could  muster.  As  he  drew 
near,  it  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  she  recognized 
him.  She  looked  again.  Yes  ;  in  spite  of  his  gay 
striped  doublet  and  plumed  bonnet,  it  was  her 
uncle's  clerk. 

"Master  Tuff!"  she  exclaimed,  stepping  for 
ward,  too  glad  of  a  familiar  face  to  remember  how 
little  she  liked  it. 

"  Mistress  Dorothy  Lucy  !  "  he  ejaculated,  pull 
ing  up,  and  tumbling  down  from  his  horse. 
"How  fare  you?  Is  Sir  Thomas  near?"  And 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKESBURY.  71 

plucking  out  his  feather,  lie  clapped  it  into  the 
bonnet,  and  began  to  fumble  at  a  roll  behind  his 
saddle. 

"Nay,  Master  Tuff,"  she  replied,  "I  am  here 
alone  and  afoot." 

Tuff's  expression  slowly  changed.  He  replaced 
his  plume,  looked  Dorothy  over,  and  finally  in 
quired  "wherein  he  could  serve  her." 

"  'Tis  no  great  charge,'1  she  answered.  "  If 
thou  wilt  fetch  me  p.ist  yonder  fellows,  and  point 
out  the  ferry  whereby  I  may  pass  over  to  Tewkes- 
bury,  I  shall  be  much  bounden  to  thee." 

"Sure,  Mistress  Dorothy,  here  is  some  mistake. 
This  is  Kvesham  town.  Tewkesbury  is  a  dozen 
mile  down  the  stream." 

"  What  S/KJ//  I  do?"  cried  Dorothy  in  dismay. 
"I  am  so  grievously  wearied."  And  the  tears  be 
gan  to  start. 

Tuff  attempted  to  console  her,  first  saying  he 
might  misjudge  the  distance,  next  wondering  if  rest 
would  not  restore  her,  and  finally  swearing  that 
rather  than  see  a  lady  thus  distressed,  he  would 
himself  bring  her  some  miles  on  the  way. 

"Cheer  up,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said  he.  "I 
had  moneys  to  collect  for  Sir  Thomas  in  Kvesham, 
but  the  business  was  soon  dispatched,  and  he  looks 
not  for  me  till  the  morrow.  I  can  well  spare  some 
hours.  'Tis  a  sorry  jade  this,  but  sure  he  will 
carry  double  for  a  time,  and  I  will  pad  his  bones  • 
for  thee  a  bit."  So  saying  he  spread  out  the  roll 
behind  his  saddle  (which  strangely  resembled  his 
every-day  doublet)  into  a  sort  of  cushion,  helped 
Dorothy  up,  mounted  before  her,  and  turned  down 
the  hill  again.  They  rode  past  the  alehouse,  Tuff 
calling  magnificently  to  the  loungers  to  clear  the 
way,  whereat  the  fellows,  though  they  leered  and 


72  THE    15AILIFF    OF    TFAVKF.SBURY. 

whispered,  did  draw  somewhat  apart,  and  refrained 
from  open  insult. 

"  'Tis  an  ill  house  that,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said 
Tuff,  when  they  were  beyond  earshot,  "  filled  with 
brawlers  and  bullies  ;  but  a  quiet  boldness  soon 
puts  them  down.  Marry,  when  I  entered  the 
room  and  called  for  my  wine,  there  were  two 
rufflers  looked  on  me  as  fierce  as  you  please.  At 
that  I  smote  off  the  bottle  neck  with  my  sword, 
crying,  '  I  hope  naught  but  wine  may  be  spilt  here 
to- day,'  and  they  sat  mum  as  mice." 

Dorothy,  not  knowing  how  much  of  this  was 
true,  kept  silence,  and  Tuff  went  on. 

"  Sir  Thomas  hath  laid  a  great  charge  on  me, 
but  I  warrant  ye,  he  knows  whom  to  trust.  Do 
but  heft  this  bag,"  he  touched  a  heavy  pouch  at 
his  side.  "  I  trow  a  good  heart  and  a  stout  arm 
are  needed  to  carry  this  safe  past  the  thieves  that 
beset  the  ways." 

Dorothy  answered  civilly  that  "  she  well  believed 
Master  Tuff  would  not  fail  in  aught  Sir  Thomas 
might  trust  him  with." 

The  poor  beast  they  rode  now  began  to  halt 
and  groan  beneath  his  double  burden,  and  Tuff  at 
length  got  down  and  walked  alongside,  holding  the 
bridle. 

"  I  must  needs  say,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  he  re 
marked,  after  hearing  of  her  adventure  with  the 
cripple,  "  it  was  ill  thought  on  to  go  trudging  thus 
to  Tewkesbury  alone." 

"Sir,"  said  Dorothy,  haughtily,  "  in  this  matter 
I  will  be  answerable  only  to  mine  uncle." 

Tuff  muttered  some  apology,  and  they  passed 
on  a  while  in  silence,  when  Dorothy,  feeling  that 
she  had  perhaps  been  ungracious  toward  a  man 
who  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  serve  her,  asked 
if  he  knew  the  road  well. 


THE     1JAIL1KF    OF    TF.WKKSBUKV.  73 

"  Surely,"  he  answered,  "  many  a  time  have  I 
taken  it.  The  river  cranks  far  to  the  north  here, 
but  we  shall  strike  it  again." 

Not  many  words  were  needed  to  put  him  at  his 
ease,  and  he  was  soon  in  the  full  tide  of  boasting 
again,  pouring  forth  his  own  brave  deeds,  past, 
present  and  future.  He  had  now  considerably 
shaken  off  his  habitual  respect  for  Dorothy,  and 
several  times  forgot  to  prefix  her  name  with  the 
usual  title  of  courtesy. 

They  stopped  a  moment  at  another  hostelry  to 
water  the  horse,  and  Tuff  emerged  more  pot- 
valiant  than  ever,  cocking  his  hat  and  threatening 
to  "  cleave  to  the  teeth  "  a  stable  lad  who  stood  in 
his  way.  His  conversation  thereafter  turned  upon 
sea  fights  and  pirates ;  and  he  was  avowing,  with 
meaning  looks  at  Dorothy,  that  if  any  girl  of  spirit 
would  go  with  him  he  would  throw  up  Sir  Thomas' 
service  and  be  off  to  the  Spanish  Main,  when 
some  object  ahead  seemed  to  cool  him  suddenly. 

"  There,  Dorothy,"  said  he,  "when  we  have  got 
through  this  wood  them  mayst  see  Tewkesbury. 
But  who  is  this  stops  our  way?  A  marvellous  ill- 
favored  fellow,  as  I  live.  By  your  leave,  I'll  mount 
again.  This  sort  are  sooner  overcrowed  by  a 
cavalier  than  a  footman." 

The  man,  however,  did  not  seem  at  all  likely  to 
be  overcrowed,  for  he  kept  his  place  until  they 
had  nearly  reached  him,  when,  presenting  a  pistol, 
he  cried,  "Stand  and  deliver  !  " 

A  resolute  and  well-mounted  man  might  have 
ridden  down  the  robber,  but  Tuff  was  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other.  He  hesitated,  swallowed  several 
times,  clutched  feebly  at  his  sword,  and  then,  as  a 
rustling  in  the  bushes  seemed  to  announce  rein 
forcements  for  the  enemy,  wheeled  his  horse  round 


74  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEVVKESBURY. 

so  suddenly  that  Dorothy  was  jostled  from  her 
place.  She  grasped  at  his  belt  to  save  herself,  but 
the  ill-mended  girdle  broke,  and  she  came  heavily 
to  the  ground,  while  Tuff,  driving  home  his  spurs, 
scoured  away  at  top  speed. 

Stunned  for  the  moment,  she  presently  re 
covered  to  find  three  or  four  villainous-looking 
fellows  round  her,  one  of  whom  was  untying  the 
pouch  attached  to  the  broken  belt,  another  exam 
ining  her  hands  for  rings,  and  all  abusing  their 
comrade  for  allowing  Tuff  to  escape. 

"  His  horse  was  naught,  and  I  see  not  that  he 
matters,"  the  sentinel  was  replying,  "  when  he 
hath  left  purse  and  maid  both  behind.  But  soft ! 
here  comes  the  Captain." 

The  quarrelsome  voices  were  somewhat  hushed 
as  a  tall,  powerful  man  about  forty,  of  better 
appearance  than  the  others,  stepped  into  the  road. 

Dorothy  rose  and  approached  him,  trembling 
inwardly,  but  addressing  him  with  a  composed 
look. 

"  Sir,  if  I  speak  to  a  soldier,  I  doubt  not  I  may 
trust  in  his  honor  to  do  what  yon  coward  groom 
hath  failed  of,  and  see  me  safe  into  Tevvkesbury." 

The  man,  who  had  expected  some  very  different 
speech,  hesitated,  looked  embarrassed,  took  off 
his  hat  and  scratched  his  head. 

"  I  did  bear  pike  in  Holland  a  score  of  years 
ago,"  said  he,  "  but  I  had  well  nigh  forgot  it. 
Come,  lady,"  bowing  to  Dorothy,  "  I  prithee  take 
my  arm  to  our  poor  house  —  'tis  hard  by  —  and 
rest  thee  a  while,  and  taste  some  food,  while  I  find 
a  way  to  bring  thee  forward.  What,  lads,  have  ye 
a  prize  there?"  as  the  money-bag  caught  his  eye. 
"  Cut  the  thong,  Tom,  —  turn  it  out  on  this  broad 
stump  — ye  shall  share  alike,  if  it  be  not  gold." 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKKSBURY. 


75 


Pulling  out  his  knife,  Tom  obeyed,  and  poured 
out  the  contents  of  the  pouch.  But  in  place  of  a 
mass  of  silver,  only  four  or  five  shillings  lay  on  the 
stump,  while  a  heap  of  pebbles  rolled  to  the 
ground.  Dorothy  gazed  with  wonder  at  this  new 
proof  of  Tuffs  duplicity,  and  the  disappointed 
thieves  burst  into  threats  and  curses.  Their 
leader  allowed  them  to  rave  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  commanded  silence. 


"This  is  no  talk  for  the  lady's  ears,"  said  he. 
"Take  up  the  shillings  —  there's  twelve  pence 
each,  and  got  with  little  labor.  This  way,  Mis 
tress,"  and  he  led  her  up  a  narrow  overgrown  path. 

Dorothy  soon  felt  the  spring  and  crackle  of 
gravel  beneath  her  feet,  and  observed  that  the  elm 
trees  on  either  side  grew  in  so  regular  a  succes 
sion  as  to  indicate  artificial  planting,  though  now 


76  THK    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

crowded  by  a  wilderness  of  saplings  and  briars. 
Her  companion  held  aside  branches,  pointed  out 
obstacles,  and  seemed  every  time  he  spoke  to  re 
call  some  phrase  or  accent  of  the  gentleman. 

"Didst  say  thou  hadst  served  abroad,  sir?" 
Dorothy  ventured,  when  the  way  became  a  little 
clearer. 

The  robber  stopped  and  gazed  on  the  fair 
childish  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  yet  set  to  look 
brave  and  cheerful. 

"Many  a  time  have  I  thought,"  said  he,  "when 
a  young  fellow  in  Holland,  how  sweet  those  words 
would  be  from  an  English  lady's  lips,  and  'tis  thus 
I  hear  them  first  !  "  He  paused  a  moment,  then 
went  on  vehemently :  "  A  captain  at  one  and 
twenty — ill  luck  at  cards  —  caught  dipping  into 
the  colonel's  purse — broke  for  a  thief  —  ye  see 
the  rest  !  " 

They  passed  between  two  stone  gate-posts, 
scarcely  visible  amid  brambles  and  weeds,  and 
emerged  on  an  open  space,  once  the  lawn  before 
a  large  stone  house,  which,  however,  as  well  as  its 
surroundings,  was  in  sad  decay.  The  chimneys 
were  copeless  and  jagged,  the  roof  fallen  in  here 
and  there,  the  upper  casements  hanging  by  one 
hinge,  or  altogether  gone,  the  walls  stained  with 
leakage.  Only  the  door  and  the  few  lower  shutters 
were  strong  and  sound,  amid  general  dilapidation, 
reminding  Dorothy  of  a  hedger  she  had  once  seen 
at  work,  hatless,  ill  shod,  and  tattered,  but  with 
his  hands  and  arms  protected  by  thick,  strong 
leather  gloves. 

"  Tis  a  fine  old  place,"  said  the  Captain,  "but 
gone  to  ruin.  The  family  left  long  ago,  and  'twill 
not  serve  us  many  years.  Nay,  lady,  look  not 
there,"  seeing  Dorothy's  eyes  straying  to  the 


THK    KAIUFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  77 

right,  "  here  is  the  fairer  prospect,  thou  mayst  see 
the  river  through  yon  gap ;  'tis  said  they  called  it 
the  Lady's  Loop." 

But  Dorothy  had  already  caught  sight  of  a  spec 
tacle  she  well  knew  from  hearsay,  which  made  her 
heart  stand  still.  From  a  tall,  withered  tree 
swung  a  network  of  chains  enclosing  a  few  tattered 
rags  and  bleaching  bones.  Her  courage  gave  way, 
and  almost  swooning  with  terror,  she  was  helped 
indoors. 

The  Captain  placed  her  in  a  chair,  and  some 
colloqnv  ensued  between  him  and  various  other 
persons,  which  she  marked  but  little.  At  length 
a  most  evil-faced  old  woman  came  forward  with  a 
glass  of  wine,  and  when  she  had  tasted  it  offered 
to  take  her  to  a  room.  Dorothy  followed  the  hag 
up  the  stone  st.iirs  and  along  the  corridor  to  a 
small  room  at  the  east  end  of  the  building.  The 
apartment  was  but  a  few  feet  square  and  had  a 
wind  r.v  scarce  six  inches  wide,  but  seemed  clean 
an;l  weather  tight. 

While  her  guide  fumbled  at  the  lock,  Dorothy 
extracted  her  two  pieces  of  gold  from  the  packet, 
and  giving  them  to  the  woman  hoped  she  would 
stand  her  friend. 

The  crone  looked  at  them  carelessly  for  a 
momc-iy,  arid  then  remarked  "they  should  go  to 
the  ( 'aptain.'' 

"\Vill  he  harm  me?"  asked  the  girl. 

'•  Nay,  I  known't,"  was  the  reply.  "  May  be 
not.  The  Captain's  rarely  taken  wi'  thee.  Why, 
he  bid  me  not  search  thee,  and  I  ne'er  heard  that 
fro'  him  before.  Perchance  he'll  wed  thee,  if  thou 
canst  manage  well." 

"Speak  not  of  it  !"  said  Dorothy  shuddering. 

"  What,  wench, "was  the  surprised  answer,  "not 


78  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESHURY. 

wed  t'  Captain  ?  Thou  mayst  do  worse,  I  can  tell 
thee.  But  an  thee  likst  it  not,  I'm  as  well 
pleased." 

"Oh,  save  me!  save  me!"  cried  Dorothy. 
"Are  you  a  woman?  " 

"I  was  one  once,"  was  the  reply. 

"Then  help  me  !     Have  you  never  a  daughter?  " 

"Nay,  none.  I  had  one  lad — they  hanged 
him.  Then  I  joined  t'  band.  I  ha'  naught  more 
to  fear  in  t'  world  or  to  hope,  save  it  be  to  see  the 
pride  o'  they  smirking  gentles  brought  down." 

She  locked  the  door  and  departed,  leaving 
Dorothy  a  prey  to  the  most  fearful  anticipations. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"  But  still  he  bet  and  bounst  upon  the  dore, 
And  at  the  portals  thondred  hideously, 
'1  hat  all  the  peece  he  shaked  from  the  flore." 

—  Sl'ENSKR. 

IT  was  nearly  sunset,  and  several  young  men 
stood  on  the  bowling  green  at  Tewkesbury,  pre 
paring  for  a  game.  Among  them  was  William 
Helpes,  now  a  man  approaching  thirty.  His  tall 
spare  frame  showed  agility  and  endurance  rather 
than  great  muscular  power,  while  his  quick  eye 
and  steady  hand  bespoke  him  an  expert  in  the 
sport.  He  was  just  stooping  for  the  first  cast, 
when  an  exclamation  from  one  of  his  companions 
made  him  look  around. 

"What  is't,  lad?" 

"  Look  yonder  !  ;<  cried  the  other,  pointing  to 
the  ferry,  within  sight  of  which  they  stood. 

1  he  ferryman  was  urging  his  craft  to  the  further 
bank,  where  stood  a  man  trying  to  raise  a  fallen 
horse.  Failing  in  this  after  one  or  two  efforts,  he 
ran  to  the  boat,  jumped  in,  and  seizing  a  spare 
pole,  sped  the  passage  with  voice  and  arm. 

"  T  lad's  in  haste,"  remarked  one. 

"  Nay,  'tis  fear,"  said  William,  as  shouts  of 
"Help!  Murder!  Thieves!"  became  audible 
from  the  passenger.  "  Let  us  go  and  see  what  he 
ails."  And  pulling  on  his  jerkin  he  led  the  way. 

The  man  in  the  boat  redoubled  his  cries  as  he 
drew  near,  and  leaping  to  land,  rushed  into  their 
midst  as  if  pursued. 


8o  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"What's  amiss?"  inquired  Helpes.  "Who  is 
murdered  and  robbed  ?  I  see  none  slain,  unless 
it  be  thy  horse  yonder." 

"I  —  I  am  murdered  and  robbed  !  "  shrieked 
Tuff,  for  he  it  was. 

"  Thou  seem'st  in  brave  case  for  a  murdered 
man,"  said  Will.  "  Quit  thy  halloaing.  Is  this 
some  jest  thou  would st  put  on  us?  " 

"  Nay,  ye  shall  hear,"  answered  Tuff,  becoming 
somewhat  calmer.  "  I  set  forth  from  Kvesham 
this  morning  with  a  goodly  sum  of  money  and  a 
fair  lady  of  noble  family,  who  had  been  placed  in 
my  charge  to  bring  to  Tewkesbury.  I  carried  her 
through  more  perils  than  one  —  ye  may  see  I'm 
not  he  to  be  frighted  by  odds  —  but  some  four 
miles  hence,  as  we  passed  through  a  most  dismal 
wood  — 

"Ay,  ay;   Gibbet  Hill  house." 

"  —  Full  a  score  of  villains  set  on  us,  and  took 
from  me  all  but  horse  and  life." 

"  So  thou  didst  run  away  and  leave  the  lady  to 
shift  for  herself?  A  most  trusty  squire  '  " 

"  I  did  all  man  could,"  whined  the  craven.  "  I 
struck  down  two,  but  they  dazzled  me  with  this 
blow," —  he  pointed  to  a  cut  along  his  temple, 
made,  in  truth,  by  a  branch  in  his  hasty  flight  — 
"they  snatched  my  pouch  —  they  bore  off  the 
lady  —  one  had  dragged  me  from  the  saddle,  but 
my  belt  burst  in  his  hold  —  I  saw  naught  left  but 
ride  for  help.  I  struck  into  a  by-way,  made  the 
round  of  the  ford,  and  came  hither,  as  the  nearest 
town." 

"Thou  say'st  the  lady  was  carried  off?  " 

"  Ay,  truly.  I  heard  her  shriek,  but  was  blinded 
with  the  blow." 

"And  who  is  she?" 


THK    BAILIFF    OF    TKWK.ESHURY.  8 1 

"  'Tis  safest  name  no  names,"  replied  Tuff,  who, 
now  he  found  himself  in  safety,  was  recovering  his 
wonted  caution. 

"Nay,  tell  me.    We  stir  not  hence  for  bubbles." 

"  Come  hither,  then."  And  as  William  stooped 
close  to  him  he  whispered,  "  'Tis  Mistress  Dorothy 
Lucy,  niece  of  Sir  Thomas,  of  rharlecote." 

"Mistress  Dorothy?"  said  Will  with  quickened 
interest,  as  he  recollected  the  bright  young  face 
beside  Sir  Thomas'  chair.  "  And  thou  couldst 
leave  her  and  fly? — but  it  skills  not  talking." 
Turning  to  the  rest  he  shouted,  "  I, ads,  here  is  a 
noble  lady  mewed  up  in  yonder  nest  of  thieves. 
Who  will  go  save  her?" 

"  I  !  "  "  1  !  "  "  J  !  "  said  several  voices,  and  a 
cheer  was  raised  ;  but  one  or  two  faint  hearts  be 
gan  to  suggest  difficulties. 

"'Tis  four  mile  hence  — 

"The  night  draws  on  — 

"A  crew  of  bold  villains  — 

"  A  troop  of  horse  were  needed  — 

"  As  luck  will  have  it,"  cried  Helpes,  "yonder 
goes  Master  Sheriff,  taking  his  evening  walk  along 
the  Ham.  I  will  go  speak  to  him."  He  hurried 
off,  dragging  Tuff  along,  and  hastened  forth  his 
tale. 

The  Sheriff,  an  elderly,  heavy  man,  listened  and 
stroked  his  beard. 

"  'Tis  a  most  grievous  wrong  indeed,"  said  he, 
"and  shall  have  remedy.  Rest  ye  here  to-night, 
come  before  me  at  the  town  hall  to-morrow,  let  us 
take  thy  testimony,  a  summons  shall  be  issued, 
and  justice  done." 

Tuff  began  to  slink  off. 

"  Sir,  sir,"  exclaimed  Will,  "  this  is  no  time  for 
delay  !  What  may  be  done  should  be  done  now. 


82  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

Let  a  few  of  us  go  forward,  I  pray,  and  at  least 
keep  track  of  these  rogues  till  thy  constables  come 
up." 

The  Sheriff  looked  at  him  in  reflecting  sur 
prise. 

"Thou  speakest  boldly,1'  said  he,  "but  I  think 
thou  mayst  be  trusted.  Here  —  'tis  something 
beyond  rules  —  but  —  William  Helpes,  I  appoint 
thee  my  deputy,  with  power  to  call  a  posse  of  any 
and  all,  in  the  Queen's  name,  whom  God  pre 
serve  ! " 

William  uttered  t'ie  customary  formula,  and  took 
the  Sheriff's  staff". 

"Here,  friend,"  said  he,  overtaking  the  retreat 
ing  Tuff,  and  grasping  his  arm,  "  we  part  not  yet. 
Lads,  I  have  authority  to  lead  ye  now.  Hal 
Winn,"  he  went  over  some  eight  or  ten  names, 
"get  ye  muskets  and  powder,  meet  me  here  as 
soon  as  may  be.  Hal,  I  prithee  bring  my  sword, 
it  hangs  at  the  door-post  of  my  room." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  company  was  again  as 
sembled. 

"  Now  forward  into  the  boat,"  said  Helpes. 
"Thrust  ye  over  speedily,  Jack,  and  then  return  if 
perchance  more  may  come  after." 

The  ferry  was  soon  crossed.  Tuff  wished  to 
take  his  horse,  who  had  by  this  time  risen  and  was 
cropping  the  grass,  his  bridle  among  his  feet ;  but 
this  Helpes  would  by  no  means  permit,  and  order 
ing  a  lad  who  stood  near  to  stable  him  for  the 
night,  they  proceeded  on  their  way  as  rapidly  as 
possible,  only  stopping  now  and  then  to  make 
requisition  on  the  farms  for  help. 

The  peasants,  however,  who  suffered  little  from 
the  robbers,  but  feared  them  much,  were  full  of 
excuses.  One  pleaded  age  and  infirmities  — 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKESBURY.  83 

another  had  just  been  taken  with  sore  pain*  in  his 
joints  —  another  prayed  to  stay  with  his  wife,  who 
lay  at  the  last  gasp,  and  another  would  certainly 
follow  Master  Deputy  as  soon  as  his  men  came 
from  the  field. 

Thus  it  happened  that  when,  on  the  verge  of 
twilight,  they  reached  the  highwaymen's  retreat, 
the  force  was  only  augumented  by  four  or  five 
laborers  with  forks  and  axes,  and  an  idiot  known 
as  "  Silly  Tom." 

The  house  was  dark,  silent,  and  apparently  un 
inhabited. 

"  \Ve  must  call  a  parley,"  said  William.  "  Sim- 
kin,  thou  hast  the  horn,  I  see,  set  a  white  clout  on 
yonder  pole,  and  come  forward  with  me.  Nay. 
Master  Tuff,  step  in  between  us,  an'  it  please  ye. 
The  rest  of  ye  keep  your  pieces  charged,  be  ready 
to  reply  if  they  fire." 

The  three  advanced  to  the  house,  where  Simkin 
blew  a  blast  on  his  horn,  then  anotiier,  and 
another,  while  Helpes  knocked  loudly  at  the  door. 
The  posse,  meanwhile,  watched  and  commented 
from  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 

''  Hast  been  here  before,  Dick?  "  asked  one. 

"  Nay,  not  I,"  said  the  other.  "  Tis  a  gashly 
place.  Is  that  t'  fellow  was  hanged  in  chains  I 
see  yonder?  " 

"  Ay,  that's  him." 

"  I  low  came  it  about  ?  " 

"Tell  us  the  tale,  Riggs,  you're  the  oldest 
here." 

"  I'm  none  old  enow  to  mind  it,"  said  the  man 
thus  distinguished.  "  'Twere  fifty  year  agone.  But 
I've  oft  heard  feyther  tell  on  't.  Ye  see,  'twere  a 
good  old  family  lived  there,  an'  there  were  one 
son,  an'  naught  would  do  but  he  must  go  see 


84  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKESBURY. 

furrin  parts.  So  away  he  went,  and  were  gone 
seven  year  an'  more,  an'  naught  heard  from  him, 
an'  every  one  thought  him  dead.  So's  cousin 
come  in  for  't  place,  when  owd  man  died — a 
worthless  young  chap,  as  turned  out  's  aunt  an' 
cousins  t'  first  day  lie  could,  ground  down  t'  poor 
folk,  an'  kept  t'  worst  company.  'A  had  been  here 
scarst  a  year,  when  t'  heir,  him  a:;  all  tho't  dead,  ye 
mind,  comes  home  from  furrin  parts  wi'  his 
pockets  full  o'  gold,  an'  looked  well  on  by  all.  He 
comes  up  to  place  here,  an'  meets  his  cousin  on  a 
fine  summer  even.  'A  goes  up  to  him,  holding 
out  's  hand,  an'  speaking  him  fair,  an'  t'  young 
rascal  were  that  angered  a.;  he  whips  out  sword, 
an'  runs  him  through  the  heart." 
There  was  a  long  sigh  of  horror. 
"  'A  got  tj  horse  an'  away,  but  'a  were  soon 
took,  an'  fetched  back,  an'  tried  an'  hung  on  that 
very  tree,  by  where  he  kills  his  cousin.  They  say 
as  his  ghost  walks  here  now.  T'  family  would  none 
come  back  —  none  could  live  in  t'  house  —  it  went 
to  ruin,  as  ye  see  —  and  a  bit  ago  these  cut- 
purses  t  >ok  their  quarters  here." 

"  They  do  say,"  observed  one  of  the  rustics, 
who  had  drawn  in  closely,  "  as  t'  band  has  a  way 
under  ground  five  mile  long,  as  comes  out  on  t' 
other  side  river." 

"I'd  none  wonder.  But  look  !  there's  some  one 
at  last." 

And  indeed,  in  answer  to  the  repeated  sum 
mons,  an  old  woman  thrust  her  head  from  an 
upper  window,  and  asked  "what  they  wanted?" 

"  Open  here  !  "  shouted  Helpes.  "Open,  in  the 
Queen's  name  ! " 

"Whom  should  I  open  till?" 
"  To  the  deputy  sheriff  of  Tewkesbury,  and  his 
posse." 


THE     HAILIFF     OF     I  FAVKKSHL'RV.  85 

"  What  do  t'  depity  shreeve  want  \vi'  hnz  ?  " 

"  Mere  is  a  subject  of  the  Queen's  Majesty,"  re 
plied  Helpes,  "  has  been  foully  misused  on  the 
highway  hard  by,  and  robbed  of  his  purse  ;  and  a 
lady  under  his  charge  has  been  carried  off  here, 
as  we  have  reason  to  believe." 

"There's  no  lady  here,"  replied  the  hag,  "an* 
no  robbers  neither,  (io  yer  ways,  go  yer  ways; 
dunnts  fright  a  poor  owd  woman  an'  her  sick  son 
to  death." 

"  Open  here,  I  say,"  cried  Will.  "  If  the  man 
who  hath  had  such  wrong  can  find  neither  the  lady 
nor  his  property,  or  recognize  the  men  who  robbed 
him,  none  shall  be  harmed  :  but  keep  us  here  no 
longer.  I  have  authority  to  enter  and  search  — 
he  held  u;>  his  staff,  "  and  yonder  band  of  good 
men  and  true  to  help.  Open,  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
name,  or  we  beat  .down  the  door  !  " 

"At  your  peril  I  "  shouted  a  rough  voice,  and  a 
half  d:;zen  shots  were  discharged  from  as  many 
windows.  The  muskets  levelled  against  the 
Deputy  and  his  companions  were  charged  with 
bird-shot,  so  they  suffered  no  great  harm  ;  but 
Tuff,  stung  by  a  stray  pellet  or  two,  broke  from  the 
others  with  a  howl  of  terror,  and,  taking  to  his 
heels,  was  seen  no  ni:;rc  that  night. 

Helpes  and  Si.nkin  \A\  back  more  slowly,  and 
joined  the  posse,  whom  they  found  in  a  very  tur 
bulent  and  demoralized  condition. 

Having  restored  some  degree  of  order,  various 
plans  of  attack  were  discussed.  One  suggestion, 
that  a  number  of  them  should  raise  a  log  upon 
their  shoulders,  and  charge  at  the  door,  was  at 
tempted,  but  the  wounding  of  the  foremost  caused 
the  downfall  of  all  and  showed  the  plan  imprac 
ticable. 


86  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

Skirmishers  were  then  thrown  out  from  right  to 
left,  but  found  the  underwood  cleared  away  about 
the  house  on  every  side,  so  that  no  cover  could  be 
had  for  assault.  A  dropping  fire  was  meanwhile 
exchanged  between  besieged  and  besiegers,  with 
some  slight  damage  to  the  latter,  who  however 
were  mostly  covered  by  trees  and  stones. 

Some  two  hours  had  worn  away  in  this  fruitless 
manner,  and  proposals  to  retreat  were  becoming 
numerous,  when  Silly  Tom,  who  hid  disappeared 
some  time  before,  came  up  to  Helpes  with  a  face 
of  grinning  importance. 

"Fn  done  for  'n  now,  Measter ;  Fn  fired  t' 
thack,"  and  a  dark  cloud  of  smoke  tinged  beneath 
with  ruddy  light,  which  began  to  rise  from  the  rear 
of  the  building,  showed  he  spoke  true. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  cried  the  bystanders.  "  Well 
done,  Tom  !  The  rats  will  soon  be  smoked  out 
now."  . 

"  Ay,"  said  Helpes,  "the  rats  will  be  smoked 
out,  no  doubt :  but  how  with  the  prize  they  have 
taken  ?  The  lady  will  either  be  slain  or  carried 
off.  Wait  ye  here  a  moment,  that  I  may  get  sight 
of  yon  end  window  again.  Methought  I  heard  a 
cry  there." 

He  rushed  off  to  reach  the  east  end  of  the 
building.  Meantime,  the  harvest  moon,  rising 
above  the  horizon,  poured  a  flood  of  mellow  light 
across  wood  and  field,  illuminating  the  tree-tops 
and  the  grass,  and  accentuating  the  deepest 
shadows.  Presently  he  came  hastily  back. 

"I  saw  her  !"  he  cried.  "She  is  in  the  east 
room.  She  looked  from  the  window  and  put  forth 
her  hand,  the  casement  is  too  narrow  for  aught 
else.  We  must  break  in  ere  the  fire  has  got  too 
far,  or  the  gang  has  carried  her  off." 

"But  how?" 


THE    IJ.UMFF    OK    TI.WKKSBURV. 


snatching   a   crowbar 
"  Quick,  ere  they  can 


"  I'll  show  ye."  lie  sprang  out  on  the  clear 
ground,  waved  his  arms  and  shouted.  Several 
muskets  were  discharged  from  the  windows,  but 
none  took  effect. 

'•  Now,   now  !  "    he   cried, 
from  one  of  the  laborers, 
re  load  :     one    of   ye 
come  with  me  —  the 
rest    stand     ready    to 
charge    in    when    the 
door  goes  down  !  " 

He  dashed  across 
the  cpen,  foil  owed 
by  Henry  Winn  with 
an  axe,  and  in  a  min 
ute  they  were  batter 
ing  the  door  with 
alternate  blows,  shel 
tered  from  the  upper 
windows  by  the  over 
hanging  porch  roof, 
while,  owing  to  the 
thickness  of  the  wall, 
no  gun  could  be 
brought  to  bear  on 
them  from  the  narrow  hall  window,  from  which 
the  best  aimed  shots  had  hitherto  come. 

"Lay  on,  lay  011!"  shouted  Helpes.  "Strike 
an'  'twere  an  anvil  —  n:iy,  blunt  not  thy  edge. 
Hal — -leave  the  iron  to  me.  Again,  again  —  we 
have  it  now  !  " 

The  upper  hinge  burst,  and  the  door  fell  back  ; 
but  as  it  did  s.)  a  fiery  jet  sprang  from  the  open 
ing,  and  Winn  fell  with  a  groan. 

"  Hast  much  hurt,  lad?  "  asked  Will. 

"  'Twill    last    my    life,    methinks,"    replied     his 


88  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKFSBURY.         f 

friend.  "  I'm  shot  thro'  the  r.cck,  but  heed  me 
not — finish  thy  work." 

He  rose,  and  crawled  aside,  while  the  others 
came  rushing  on  after  their  leader,  who,  driving 
in  the  door,  found  a  barricade  of  chairs,  tables  and 
benches  piled  in.  his  way ;  while  in  the  back  of  the 
hall,  now  fast  filling  with  smoke  from  the  increas 
ing  fire,  the  robbers  could  be  seen  filing  one  by 
one  down  an  open  cellar  way. 

With  calls  to  "  stand  and  surrender,"  the  deputy 
and  his  posse  forced  their  way  through  and  over 
the  barrier,  but  not  till  all  had  disappeared  save 
one  fellow,  who  stood  half  way  down  the  steps 
with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"Where  is  the  lady?''  cried  Will,  drawing  his 
sword,  and  springing  forward. 

"  Seek  her  above,"  answered  the  ruffian. 
"  There's  a  barrel  of  powder,  and  match  alight,  to 
help  ye." 

He  fired  a  pistol  at  Helpes,  slammed  down  the 
flap,  and  vanished. 

Breathless,  giddy,  ard  wounded  in  the  forearm 
by  three  slugs,  Will  dropped  his  sword,  and  leaned 
a  few  seconds  against  the  wall.  His  friends 
crowded  round  with  eager  enquiries. 

" 'Tis  naught,  a  scratch,"  he  replied,  recovering 
himself,  "Come,  up  the  stair!"  and  he  placed 
his  foot  on  the  lowest  step. 

"Nay,"  interposed  Riggs,  "did  ye  not  hear  what 
he  said  o'  powder?  Hark  !  Hark  !  " 

And  in  the  silence  which  followed  they  could 
hear  that  most  fearful  of  sounds,  in  a  confined 
space  - —  the  hissing  sputter  of  a  lighted  fuse. 

With  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  most 
rushed  at  the  door ;  but  one  or  two  held  William 
back. 


THE     liAII.IFF    <>:•'    'i'l 

"  I'll  lay  my  life  there's  none  there  :  ye'll  ne'er 
find  her — 

"Thou'lt  be  riding  the  night  breeze  next 
minute  — 

"The  nearer  heaven!''  he  answered:  and  re 
leasing  himself,  rushed  up  the  stair  alone. 

He  reached  the  upper  hall,  now  hot  and  thick 
with  smoke,  calling  aloud,  "Mistress  Dorothy  — 
Mistress  Lucy  —  Dorothy,  where  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Here,  here  !  "  called  a  voice  through  the 
darkness. 

Groping  his  way,  he  reached  a  door,  and  threw 
his  weight  against  it.  The  lock  yielded,  and  he 
stood  in  Dorothy  Lucy's  presence. 

A  sharp  report  —  a  roar  like  the  bursting  of  a 
volcano,  followed  by  an  outward  rush  of  sulphur- 
scented  air  —  and  the  floor  heaved  upward  and 
disappeared  from  sight,  the  front  wall  falling  in,  and 
the  tiles  pouring  in  a  clattering  avalanche  from 
the  roof.  The  flames,  which  now  had  a  strong  hold 
on  the  west  end  of  the  building,  sank  for  an  in 
stant,  and  then  burst  forth  with  redoubled  fury. 

"  He's  dead,  for  certain,"  said  one  of  the  posse, 
who  from  a  safe  distance  viewed  the  scene.  "'A 
were  a  brave  lad,  but  'a  wouldn't  hear  reason." 

"  Nay,  nay,  there  'a  comes  !  "  cried  another  ; 
and  a  hearty  cheer  was  raised,  as,  clambering  down 
the  heap  of  rubbish  the  explosion  had  left,  William 
appeared,  with  Dorothy  in  his  arms. 

Several  horsemen  had  now  come  up,  whose 
steeds  were  made  useful  in  conveying  the  wounded 
men,  of  whom  there  were  five,  one  dangerously 
hurt.  Will  Helpes,  declaring  his  injury  a  trifle, 
walked  to  Tewkesbury  at  Dorothy's  bridle  rein,  nor 
relinquished  his  charge  till  she  was  safe  in  Dame 
Hincklev's  arms. 


9° 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 


But  long  after  their  departure  the  flames,  roar 
ing  upward  into  the  .^y,  h'ghted  up  the  country  for 
miles  around,  and  proclaimed  Gibbet  Hill  house  a 
thing  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !    Sound  cause   to  sleep  hast  thou  !  " 

—  TENNYSON. 

DOROTHY'S  waking  next  morning  was  gradual  and 
troubled.  The  thread  of  light  which  crept  in 
through  1  >ame  Hinckley's  garret  window,  despite 
the  loving  care  with  which  it  had  been  curtained, 
recalled  to  her  fevered  mind  the  silver  line  of  the 
Avon,  which  yesterday  she  had  so  feared  to  lose 
sight  of,  and  on  it  seemed  to  float  in  succession 
the  various  forms  she  had  met :  the  woman  bind 
ing  sheaves,  the  cripple  and  the  alehouse  ruffians, 
Tuff  and  the  robber  captain,  all  ending  in  a  scene 
of  darkness,  smoke,  and  tumult,  through  which  the 
face  of  Shakespeare  came  breaking  like  a  star,  and 
from  which  she  would  rouse  herself  with  an  effort, 
only  to  begin  anew  the  weary  round. 

At  length,  resolutely  disengaging  herself  from 
these  visions,  she  sat  up,  and  looked  about  her. 
She  saw  a  garret  but  little  larger  than  the  great 
four- post  bedstead  which  she  had  occupied  so 
many  years  at  Charlecote,  and,  small  as  it  was, 
almost  bare  cf  furniture.  The  pallet  on  which  she 
lay,  a  stool  at  her  side,  whereon  a  cup  of  milk  had 
been  placed,  and  a  spinning-wheel,  were  the  only 
artick  s  she  could  perceive,  except  her  own  cloth 
ing  and  a  little  of  the  dame's.  She  rose  and 
dressed  herself,  feeling  very  weak,  and  lame  from 
head  to  foot,  from  the  unwonted  exertions  of  yes 
terday.  Much  in  need  of  some  sustenance,  she 
drank  the  milk,  and  then  tried  to  compose  her 


92  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURV. 

thoughts  sufficiently  to  appreciate  her  position. 
Slowly  the  later  events  of  the  night  came  back  to 
her,  and  she  could  faintly  recollect,  after  that 
momentary  vision  of  the  face  which  had  burst 
through  the  thunder-cloud  of  assault,  a  long  and 
weary  night  ride  through  miry  ways,  ending  with 
the  clatter  of  paved  streets,  and  the  clasp  of  wel 
coming  arms. 

She  drew  the  cloak  from  the  window,  and 
looked  forth-,  but  hastily  replaced  it  again  on  find 
ing  that  she  could  almost  have  touched  the  gable 
of  the  opposite  house,  and  that  a  slatternly  woman 
was  gazing  with  great  interest  from  the  aperture 
fronting  her  own,  both  casement  frames,  covered 
with  thin  oiled  linen,  having  been  swung  back  to 
admit  air.  The  neighbor  directed  a  torrent,  first 
of  inquiry,  then  of  sarcasm,  and  finally  of  abuse, 
against  the  veil  between  them,  to  which  Dorothy 
made  no  answer,  but  withdrew  herself  into  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  room.  She  had  seen  the 
.sun  high  in  heaven  during  her  brief  glance  with 
out,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  morning  must  be 
far  advanced.  But  stili  there  was  no  sign  of 
Dame  Hinckley. 

At  last  a  step,  which  strove  to  be  a  light  one, 
was  heard  on  the  stair,  and  the  worthy  woman, 
softly  raising  the  latch,  crept  into  the  room, 
starting  with  surprise  as  she  saw  Dorothy  up  and 
dressed. 

"  My  service  to  ye,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said  she, 
curtseying  formally ;  and  then,  as  the  girl  held 
out  her  arms,  she  caught  her  in  her  own,  crying, 
and  caressing  her  with  the  old  names  of  baby 
hood.  "  Kh,  poppet  !  Eh,  sweeting  !  but  'tis  good 
to  have  ye  here  !  Never  was  a  fairer  sight  in 
these  four  walls.  I  thought  not  ever  to  see  ye 


THK    KAILII-T    OT    TKWKF.SBURY. 


93 


again,    but    ye    are    welcome    as    flowers  in  May. 
Tis  a  poor  place  for  a  Lucy,  but  —  : 

"Nay,  nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  who  had  thought 

much  upon  this  matter.     "Call  me   not  a   Lucy 

-  I    will     be     Dorothy    Markham."       And     she 

added,    under    breath,    "  I    have  wedded   poverty 

now;    I  must  change  my  name." 


Dame  Hinckley  looked  amazed.  "Markham? 
Sure,  'twas  thy  mother's  name,  and  a  truer,  nor  a 
better  woman  never  stepped;  but  —  but  —  well, 
an'  thou'lt  have  it  so,  'tis  not  for  me  to  say  thee 
nay.  Thou  knowest  best,  and  wilt  pardon  a  silly 
owd  woman  if  she  forgets  by  times." 

"  I  fear  me,"  said  Dorothy,   "  I  have  been  but  a. 


94  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKKSKURY. 

sluggard  this  day.     On  the  morrow  I  will  strive  to 
rise  as  soon  as  thou." 

"  Thou  mayn't  do  that,"  said  the  dame.  "  Thou'll 
ne'er  blind  thy  pretty  eyes  wi'  rising,  as  I  do,  wi' 
sun  all  summer,  and  before  him  in  winter.  'Tis 
well  enow  for  an  owd  maid  like  me,  but  not  for  a 
young  one." 

"  But  why  must  get  thee  out  so  early,  nurse?  " 
"To  set  open  church-doors,"  replied  Dame 
Hinckley  proudly.  I  ha'  done  it  these  ten  year. 
Gaffer  Hedge,  t'  sexton,  grows  owd  an'  failed,  and 
a'  were  never  fond  on  work  at  's  best.  So  I  goes 
down  every  morn,  an  opes  t'  doors,  an'  takes  a 
besom  till  't'  floor,  an  redds  t'  place  :  an'  Sundays 
an'  High  days  I  lays  cushions  for  t'  gentry,  an'  sees 
Sir  Richard's  gown  and  bands  ready,  an'  keeps 
t'  lads  bashed.  I  does  mostly  all  but  ring  t'  bells 
an'  dig  t'  graves.  I  has  a  dole  from  Sir  Richard, 
an'  summat  from  Gaffer  Hedge,  an'  wi'  Christmas- 
box  an'  Whissun-vails,  I  nigh  pay  for  roof  an' 
board.  Then  at  even  'tis  all  to  close  again,  mind 
ye." 

"Then  thou  goest  twice  i'  th'  day?" 
"Ay  do   I:    but    I'm  ne'er  away  at  night,   my 
pretty  :   never  fear,  I'll  not  leave  thee  then." 
"  But  does  no  one  ever  let  thee  in  thy  work?" 
"  Ay,  ay,"   said  the  dame.      "A  host  o'  sturdy 
beggars  v/ould    fain  come   in    for  shelter  o'  dirty 
days  :   but  I  never  let  'em  further  than  the  porch, 
as    theer  shoon  'ud  mucky  t'   floor  shameful  :  T' 
lads  are  for  hop-scotch  an'  marbles  on   t'  flags  at 
door,  an"  away  or  I  can  clout  'em  o'  th'  head  ;   an' 
only  last  Friday,  as  ever  were,  an  owd  body  slips 
in  when  my  back  were  turned,  an'  flumps   down  o' 
her  knees  at  chancel-steps;  but  I   soon  had   her 
out,  I  promise  ye.      '  'Tis  no  place  for  praying  this,' 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBIRV.  95 

says  I,  an'  marches  her  to  door  faster  nor  she 
came." 

"Nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  "my  head  aches  sadly. 
Dost  think  I  might  go  down  to  the  street  awhile 
for  air ?  " 

I  )ame  Hinckley  looked  grave  and  considered  a 
minute. 

"  If  thou  canst  bear  it,  dearie/'  said  she,  "  me- 
thinks  'twere  best  not  stir  out  till  even.  Town 
were  all  agog  last  night,  when  Depity  an'  poss 
came  in.  Full  a  hundred  bold  fellows  were  reel 
ing  about,  and  swearin'  how  'twere  a  sad  grief  they 
were  too  late  to  go  along  :  and  only  Master  Helpes 
gave  'em  the  slip,  an'  brought  thee  round  a  back 
way,  while  throng  were  running  after  wounded 
men,  I'm  feared  house  would  ha'  been  torn  down 
o'er  our  heads  by  morn.  But  when  I  win  back 
from  church,  ere  curfew  sounds,  I'll  take  thee  out 
a  bit :  then  if  any  ask  after  thee,  I'll  say  'tis  my 
niece  come  to  bide  wi'  me  awhile.  I  ha'  told 
truth  these  fifty  year,  an'  got  a  name  will  carry- 
one  tale  through." 

I  )orothy  looked  up  and  was  about  to  speak 
hastily  :  but  remembering  how  long  Sir  Thomas 
had  called  her  niece,  kept  silence. 

"Hut  here  stand  I!"  cried  Dame  Hinckley, 
"  my  hands  hanging  to  my  arms  an'  the  light  going 
to  waste.  Lay  thee  down  again,  dear,  rest  if  thee 
cannot  sleep  ;  I  num.  get  to  my  wheel." 

And  taking  a  bunch  of  flax  from  a  hutch  in  the 
wall,  she  seated  herself,  and  began  to  draw  out  the 
fine  smooth  thread  from  the  whirling  wheel  with  a 
dexterity  born  of  long  practice;  while  Dorothy, 
laying  down  her  aching  head  on  the  sack  of  chaff 
which  served  for  a  pillow,  sank  into  deeper  slum 
ber  than  before.  She  was  wakened  at  noon  for  a 


96  THE     BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

meal,  but  would  only  eat  a  little  bread  and  water, 
and  then  relapsed  into  oblivion ;  while  Dame 
Hinckly,  gladly  devouring  a  double  portion  of 
broad-beans,  turned  to  her  work  again. 

It  was  near  sundown  when  the  sleeper  was 
roused  by  a  touch  on  the  shoulder.  Her  nurse 
stood  beside  her  with  a  look  of  triumphant  weari 
ness,  holding  up  some  yarn. 

"  There,  dearie,  I  ha'  done  three  hanks  to-day, 
for  all ;  I  could  do  four  at  my  best ;  but  three's 
none  so  bad  for  a  woman  nigh  threescore.  Dost 
feel  well  enow  to  get  up  an'  snod  thyself,  while  I 
be  gone  to  church?  Then  we'll  take  a  turn,  an' 
ha'  our  bit  o'  supper  after." 

Dorothy,  having  arranged  her  hair  and  dress  as 
neatly  as  possible  without  mirror,  pins  or  brushes, 
seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  looked  at  the 
receding  corbelled  house  front  opposite,  and  the 
street  below,  so  narrow  and  crooked  that  she  could 
only  see  a  few  yards  in  either  direction.  The 
Smell  and  sound  of  many  frying  suppers  (each 
savory,  but  as  a  whole  malodorous)  rose  to  her 
point  of  espial,  and  for  a  moment  she  remembered 
regretfully  the  breezy  park  at  Charlecote.  But 
she  saw  her  nurse  approaching  with  love  in  her 
face,  and  all  else  was  for  the  time  forgotten. 

"  I  ha'  borrowed  a  cloak  of  gossip  Jenkins,  as 
thou'd  best  wear,"  said  the  dame  entering. 

Dorothy  looked  at  the  dingy  garment  presented 
with  great  disfavor.  "  I  have  one  of  my  own," 
said  she. 

"  'Twill  none  do,"  answered  the  other  decidedly. 
"  Art  too  much  t'  lady  in  thy  worst  gear.  Thou 
knowst  naught  of  life,  heaven  forbid ;  but  t'  more 
thou  canst  look,  ay,  an'  talk,  ay,  an'  feel  like  my 
niece,  while  thou  bidst  here,  the  better.  I've  none 
angered  thee,  sure?"  bending  forwaid  anxiously. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKF.SBURY.  97 

"  Xo,  no,"  replied  Dorothy,  swallowing  her 
feeling. 

"Why  that's  well,  (leading.  Come  wi'  me. 
"  And  the  two  descended  the  strait  and  creaking 
stair.  They  passed  along  the  tortuous  alley  to 
ward  High  Street,  Dorothy  drawing  the  hood 
closely  round  her  face,  and  Dame  Hinckley,  who 
was  a  person  of  some  consequence  in  her  way, 
elbowing  aside  all  who  obstructed  her  charge's 
progress,  and  bestowing  on  one  impudent  youth  a 
buffet  which  sent  him  into  the  kennel. 

"Dost  mind  t'  lane,  dear?"  she  inquired, 
"Many  a  time  thou's  played  on  these  stones  — 
Keep  t'  wall,  Kate,  a  murrain  to  thee  !  —  Jan 
Cobbler's  dead,  and  's  son  has  new  painted  t'  sign  ; 
thy  first  shoon  were  clouted  there  ;  here's  t' 
baker's  shop,  where  wouldst  hold  by  t'  bulk,  an'  cry 
for  sweet  cakes  —  Jem  Flack,  where  art  shoving 
thyself?  if  I  take  a  stick  in  hand,  I'll  send  thee  to 
t'  cooper  wi'  a  noggin  to  mend. —  Here's  t'  High 
Street,  dearie;  is 't  not  a  fine  sight?"  And  the 
worthy  soul,  who  in  truth  believed  that  Tevvkesbury's 
chief  thoroughfare  had  no  fellow,  stood  a  few 
moments,  looking  up  and  down  with  an  air  of 
complacency  good  to  behold. 

Her  face  clouded  presently,  however,  and  she 
began  hurrying  Dorothy  back  into  the  alley. 

"  Is  it  time  to  go  yet?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Full  time.  Dost  see  yon  power  of  gallants 
coming?  There's  no  breaking  their  heads;  and 
if  they  get  sight  o'  thee,  worse  may  follow." 

She  pushed  Dorothy  hastily  along,  but  ere  they 
reached  the  door,  one  of  the  company  had  nearly 
overtaken  them.  For  an  instant  the  maiden's 
soul  leaped  into  her  eyes,  as  she  saw  a  hint  of  the 
face  which  had  dwelt  in  her  thoughts  for  two  years. 


98  THE    I5AILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

A  second  glance,  however,  showed  her  mistake. 
Dame  Hinckley  advanced,  bristling  up  like  a  hen, 
but  soon  dropped  her  guard. 

"What,  is  't  thou,  Master  Helpes?"  she  ex 
claimed,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "  For  sure,  I 
thought  'twas  one  of  these  young  whipsters  will 
ne'er  be  stopped  or  spoken  ;  but  come  in —  come 
in"  —  she  got  them  within  the  street  door  — 
"  Master  Helpes,  thou  must  know  Mistress  Dorothy 
Markham." 

"I  came,"  said  the  young  man,  doffing  his  cap, 
"  to  pay  my  respect  to  Mistress  Dorothy,  and  hope 
she  is  none  the  worse  for  last  night." 

Dorothy  murmured  her  thanks. 

"And  I  have  some  trifle  here,"  he  continued, 
tendering  a  brace  of  wild  fowl,  "  I  hope  thou'lt 
try,  Dame,  to  change  thy  Sunday  dinner  withal." 

"Eh,"  said  Dame  Hinckley,  taking  the  game, 
"  'tis  long  or  I've  seen  the  like.  My  properest 
thanks  to  thee,  Master  Helpes.  But  how's  this?" 
observing  that  his  arm  and  hand  were  bandaged. 
"  I  )id  they  peck  thy  fingers  or  thou  couldst  wring 
their  necks?  " 

"  Nay,  'tis  but  a  touch  I  got  last  night." 

"What,  sir?"  said  Dorothy,  "wast  hurt  in 
saving  me?  Is  it  a  burn?  Hath  aught  been 
done  to  heal  it  ?  " 

"The  barber  hath  picked  out  the  slugs,"  re 
plied  Helpes,  "  and  it  must  needs  be  sore  a  few 
days." 

"  Come  up  to  my  room,"  said  Dame  Hinckley, 
"  let  me  get  the  bottle  of  balm,  and  thou  needst 
not  say  that.  I'll  lay  the  fowls  here,  and  Giles 
Baker  will  roast  me  them  for  Sunday." 

They  ascended  to  the  garret,  the  balsam 
and  some  clean  linen  were  produced,  and  the 


THK    1SAII.IFF    OK    TFAVKESBURY.  99 

arm  unbound.  It  proved  to  be  badly  lacerated 
and  inflamed. 

"(lo  look  from  the  window,  child,"  said  the 
Dame,  seeing  that  Dorothy  had  turned  very  white. 
"This  is  no  sight  for  thee." 

"  Xay,"  said  the  girl,  "what  another  can  bear, 
I  trust  1  can  look  on.  If  Master  Helpes  will 
permit  — 

And  taking  the  place  of  her  good-hearted  but 
rough-handed  nurse,  she  anointed  and  bound  up 
the  wound  with  a  gentleness  and  skill  learned 
from  the  mistress  of  Charlecote. 

"  I  thank  thee,  lady,"  said  Helpes  when  the 
operation  was  completed,  "  thou  dost  me  too 
much  honor." 

"  Xay,"  said  Dorothy  earnestly,  "'tis  for  me  to 
thank  thee,  who  didst  save  me  yesternight  from  a 
fearful  death.  Thou  must  think  me  most  ungrate 
ful,  but  in  sooth  my  head  is  so  wildered  I  scarce 
know  who  or  where  I  am." 

"  I  shall  ever  esteem  myself  most  happy  in  that 
I  was  able  to  serve  thee,"  he  replied,  moving 
towards  the  door.  ]  )orothy  held  out  her  hand. 
Helpes  bo\v(  d  low  over  it,  and  with  a  "(lood- 
even,  Mistress  Don  thy  —  god-den,  Dame,"  left 
the  room. 

"  There's  true  blood  there,"  said  Dame  Hinckley. 
"  Didst  mark  how  he  said  naught  of  's  hurt?  A 
clown  may  lay  on  like  a  thrasher,  but  if  's  skin's 
broke,  ye  hear  on't.  And  when  he  came  up  to 
this  poor  place,  never  a  wink  did  he  give  to  wall 
or  plenishing,  but  looked  right  on  us.  Ay,  the 
family  may  be  burgees,  but  they  come  of  gentles 
—  I've  heard  they're  kin  to  the  I  (acres." 

While  she  spoke,  she  had  heaped  a  few  bits  of 
charcoal  into  a  small  brasier.  Then  running 


IOO  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKES3URY. 

hastily  down  stairs,  she  returned  with  a  live  coal 
on  a  heap  of  ashes  in  her  palm. 

"  'T  light  goes  fast,"  said  she,  "but  mayhap 
there's  time." 

A  piece  of  cheese  and  half  a  loaf  were  now  set 
forth,  and  the  dame  began  ton.sting  the  former  at 
the  coals,  after  blowing  them  to  a  glow.  The 
bread  was  sliced,  and  the  meal  jnst  ready,  when  a 
few  heavy  strokes  sounded  from  the  church  tower. 

"  I  feared  it,"  said  she,  "  there's  t'  curfew,  but 
we're  just  i'  time." 

Throwing  the  coals  on  the  hearth,  she  covered 
them  with  ashes,  and  supper  was  eaten  in  darkness. 

Dorothy  was  soon  ready  for  slumber,  but  Dame 
Hinckley  firmly  refused  to  share  the  pallet. 

"  I  know  my  place  better,"  said  she.  "  I'm  full 
as  well  here,  in  my  cloak,  wi'  my  back  to  wall. 
Feyther  were  full  o'  ashmy,  an'  I  find  it  creep  on 
me." 

Not  all  Dorothy  could  say  moved  her,  and  ere 
long  nurse  and  nursling  were  deep  in  repose. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"  In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  hound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground.'' 

—  WORDSWORTH. 

DAMP.  HIXCK.LF.Y  was  away  at  her  church  duties 
early  next  morning,  but  Dorothy  rose  before  her 
return  and  began  to  meditate  what  she  could  do 
to  increase  the  family  income.  Of  the  Dame's 
two  sources  of  revenue,  one  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion,  but  surely  she  could  spin.  She  said  as  much 
on  her  nurse's  return,  but  was  met  with  a  dubious 
look. 

"So  many  women  spin,"  urged  Dorothy,  "it 
cannot  be  hard  to  learn." 

"  None  so  hard,  take  it  early,"  replied  the 
Dame.  "  But  young  as  thee  is,  my  pretty,  I'm 
feared  thee's  too  owd  for  that.  Or  best  say, 
hoped  ;  for  a  sin  and  shame  it  were  that  Lucy 
fingers  should  twirl  a  distaff." 

"  Remember,  nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  laughing, 
"  they  are  Markham  fingers.  Come,  let  me  try." 

And  despite  remonstrance,  she  sat  down  at  the 
wheel,  where  she  met  with  the  usual  fate  of  begin 
ners —  pinched  her  foot,  cut  her  fingers  with  the 
thread,  and  so  forth  ;  still  she  persevered,  and  at 
the  end  of  an  hour  had  produced  three  or  four 
yards  of  very  slack  and  uneven  twist. 

'•  flow  much  would  that  be  worth,  nurse?  "  she 
asked  in  the  pride  of  first  achievement. 

"Let's  see,"  said  the  Dame.  "  Happen 'twould 
—  ay,  thee's  been  at  work  an  hour — -it  might  be 
a  hank  a  day."  101 


IO2  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  And  what  is  a  hank  worth  ?  " 

"  A  penny,"  was  the  crushing  reply.  "  As  I 
towd  thee,  at  my  best  I  could  spin  four  hanks  a 
day  and  earn  a  groat." 

"Then  I  can  only  earn  a  penny  a  day,"   said 
Dorothy,  appalled.     "  Oh,  nurse,  I  have  but  come 
to  be  a  burden  on  you  !      I  wish  —  but  stay  — 
she  drew  from  her   bosom  the  little  packet  con 
taining  her  ear-rings. 

"  Here,  nurse,  take  these  to  the  goldsmith  and 
sell  them.  Sure  they  will  keep  me  a  year." 

"  Nay,  sweet,  none  o'  that.  A  burden  !  Is  't 
not  the  grandest  honor  to  me  to  hr.ve  a  Lu  —  I 
mean,  a  lady,  biding  wi'  me  in  these  poor  walls, 
gien  I  did  na  love  her?  And  doant  I  love  thee 
wi'  all  my  heart  ?  and  doesn't  thou  do  me  more 
good  wi'  thy  pretty  face,  an'  pretty  speech,  nor 
thou  wast  the  bravest  spinster  in  't  shire?  Sell  thy 
fair  ear-rings,  quotha  !  Wouldst  ha'  t'  owd  woman 
be  ta'en  for  a  thief  ?  Put  'em  by,  dear,  put  'em 
by  ;  they  must  hang  in  thy  ears  when  thy  wedding 
day  comes." 

"There  will  be  no  wedding  day  for  me,"  said 
Dorothy. 

"  So  they  all  say  to  owd  nurses,  but  never  one 
to  right  young  gentleman.  Thou'lt  be  a  fair  bride 
yet,  an'  I  only  hope  I  may  live  to  busk  thee." 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  had  those  gold  pieces 
I  gave  the  woman  at  —  what  call  they  the 
robbers'?" 

"  Gibbet  Hill  house,  dost  mean?" 

Dorothy  shivered  at  the  ugly  name. 

"  Nay,  don't  be  feared.  None  will  see  't  more. 
'Tis  burnt  clean  wi'  t'  ground,  they  tell  me.  But 
how  came  thee  gi-ing  any  money  there  ?  that  sort 
mostly  take;  an'  how?  but  I  crave  thy  pardon, 
here  be  I  axing  for  what  's  no  matter  o'  mine." 


THE    ISAILIFF    OF    rj  KWKF.SBURV.  103 

"  I'll  tell  thee  all  the  talc,  nurse,"  said  Dorothy, 
"  except  why  I  left  my  uncle's  house  :  that  must 
not  be  spoken  of." 

Dame  Hinckley  nodded.  "  By  thy  leave,  dear, 
I'll  get  to  my  spinning  the  while  :  t'  day  runs  on." 
And  seating  herself  at  the  wheel,  in  which  position 
Dorothy  regarded  her  with  a  considerable  accession 
of  respect,  she  prepared  ear  and  mind  for  her 
nursling's  story. 

Dorothy  began  with  her  early  walk  in  the  Charle-'- 
cote  fields,  and  then  down  the  Avon.  The  good 
dame  listened  with  the  deepest  interest.  Many 
were  her  expressions  of  commiseration  for  Dor 
othy,  great  the  scorn  she  heaped  on  Tuff ;  and 
after  twice  breaking  her  thread,  a  thing  which,  as 
she  remarked,  did  not  happen  once  a  week,  she 
was  compelled  to  cease  her  work. 

Only  the  conclusion  of  the  story  need  be  given 
in  the  narrator's  own  words. 

"I  heard  them  call  withcut,  'Open,  in  the 
Queen's  name,'  and  then  the  guns  firing.  After  a 
time,  just  as  the  ir,o<  n  was  rising,  I  saw  some  one 
near  my  window.  I  called,  ard  put  out  my  arm. 
More  1  cotiM  not,  it  was  so  strait.  Scon  after,  the 
Captain — 1  knew  his  voice  —  came  to  my  door, 
the  which  I  had  fastened  as  we]'  <-s  I  might,  told 
me  the  house  wr.s  fired,  and  rone  ;hculd  harm  me 
if  I  would  come  forth,  and  away  with  them  by  the 
underground  pa.;s  .ge.  I  m.ide  him  no  answer,  and  * 
methinks  he  must  have  been  shot,  for  just  as  he 
began  to  speak  ag.in,he  cried  out,  and  fell  against 
the  door.  Some  came  stamping  up,  and  carried 
him  off.  Then  the  smoke  gathered  thick,  and  I 
knew  little  iiure  till  one  broke  the  door  with  a 
great  noise,  and  bore  me  out.  There  was  a  weary 
ride,  which  seemed  like  a  dream,  and  then  thou 
didst  take  me  in." 


IO4  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TI-:\VKI.Sr,URV. 

"Ay,  dear,"  replied  the  c!a  r.c,  embracing  her, 
"and  I  trust  ever  to  keep  thee  safe  from  such 
another  fearsome  night.  There's  no  doubt  some 
o'  t'  gang  were  killed,"  she  went  on,  repeating  the 
rumors  of  the  town,  "  an'  o'  our  side,  poor  Hal 
Winn  is  like  to  die." 

She  had  now  resumed  her  wheel  and  was  plying 
it  briskly,  as  if  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

"Oh,  this  is  dreadful  !  "  cried  Dorothy.  "  How 
many  lives  have  been  lost  through  me  !  " 

"  'Twould  ha'  been  none  t'  better,  gif  thine  had 
been  lost  too.  Gi'  thanks  for  that." 

"  I  do,  I  have,"  returned  the  girl.  "  But  all 
this  has  come  of  my  leaving  home  —  Charlecote,  I 
mean  —  and  yet  I  could  not  stay." 

She  remained  musing  the  rest  of  the  morning, 
and  at  dinner  could  not  eat  her  share  of  bean- 
porridge.  Her  nurse  was  much  distressed. 

"  'Tis  coming  from  country  air  to  this  close 
alley,"  said  she.  "  I  be  wonted  to  't.  No  reek 
ne'er  turns  my  stomach  ;  but  in  course  'tis  differ 
ent  wi'  a  lady.  But  to-morrow's  Sunday,  and  we'll 
ha'  t'  brace  o'  fowl  Master  Helpts  brought,  an'  I 
hope  thou  canst  pick  some  o'  them.  Lay  thee 
down  now,  and  we'll  tike  t'  air  again  at  even." 

Dorothy  rested  and  do/ed  most  of  the  after 
noon,  until  Dame  Hinckley  came  hum  ing  in. 

"  I  ha'  got  back  a  bit  sooner  than  common," 
she  panted,  "an1  as  good  luck  will  ha'  't,  there's  a 
bull-fight  on  the  Ham,  an'  every  rudcsby  in  town 
gone  to  't.  So  we  may  find  t'  way  clear.'' 

The  faded  old  cloak  was  again  brought  forth. 

•'I  hate  to  wrap  thee  up  in  this,  but  'tis  safest. 
By-ancl-by  I'll  say,  '  My  niece  has  gotten  a  new 
cloak,'  an'  thou  canst  put  on  thy  own.  Kh  !  how 
th'  gossips  ha'  pestered  me  about  thee  this  day  ! 


THK    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKKSBURY. 


105 


An'  I  durst  na'  gi'  one  o'  them  a  clout,  for  fear 
'twould  make  all  worse.  I  ha'  held  my  hard  so 
oft,  I  hope  to  be  forgi'n  for  the  lies  I'n  told." 

They  descended  to  the  alley,  which  they  found 
deserted  by  all  the  boys,  nearly  all  the  men,  and 
most  of  the  younger  women  ;  and  consequently 
reached  the  High  street  much  sooner  and  more 
easily  than  on  the  previous  day. 


"  Bull-fight's  yonder,"  said  Dame  Hinckley 
laconically,  pointing  westward.  "Dost  hear  'em 
shout  ?  " 

And  indeed,  the  roars  of  alternate  applause  and 
terror,  mingled  with  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  the 
baited  animal,  were  distinctly  audible  from  some 
half-mile's  distance. 

"Thou'd  none  care  to  go  look  on  from  t'  wall?" 
she  added,  inquiringly. 


IO6  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFWKESBURY. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  said  Dorothy,  shrinking  away. 

"  Thou  's  right,  no  doubt,"  replied  her  nurse,  in 
a  slightly  disappointed  tone.  "  It  might  na'  be 
safe  —  I  ha'  been  to  many  a  one  in  my  time  — 
but  surely  thou  is  right — 'tis  no  place  for  owd 
women  or  young  ladies." 

She  turned  away  and  led  Dorothy  down  the 
street,  pointing  out  the  objects  of  interest. 

"  Von's  t'  Abbey,  an'  Town-Hall  at  street  end 
—  thou'll  mind  them  —  an'  here's  Sir  Richard's 
house,  an'  t'  Bailey's,  as  is  last  made  —  an'  here's 
where  t'  king  supped,  after  t'  fight  in  Bloody 
Meadow  —  my  broder  '11  be  proud  to  tell  thee  o' 
that  —  an'  down  this  way  lives  Master  Helpes  and 
his  sire." 

She  was  turning  down  the  indicated  way,  but 
Dorothy  stopped  her. 

"  Not  there,"  she  objected. 

"Nay,  why  not?"  said  the  Dame.  "They're 
all  at  bull-bait,  for  sure.  I'd  ha'  thee  see  t' 
windows.  No  gentle  in  town  has  fairer,  an'  just 
put  in,  as  t'  feythcr  must  roll  in  money  to  do  it." 

They  advanced  along  the  street,  and  soon  came 
to  a  commodious  grey  stone  house  standing  back 
from  the  roadway,  a  spacious  garden  at  one  side, 
and  every  window  fitted  with  glass  casements,  the 
bright  lead  of  whose  lattices  announced  their  very 
recent  introduction. 

"  Are  they  not  fine?"  said  the  Dame.  "  Eh,  I 
forgot.  Thou's  well  used  lo  the  like  at  Charle- 
cote.  But  there's  few  such  here.'' 

Her  voice  aroused  no  less  a  person  than  William 
Helpes  himself,  who  sprang  up  from  a  bench  under 
one  of  the  great  apple-trees,  and  came  forward  to 
the  wall,  thrusting  some  papers  into  his  doublet 
front. 


THE     ISAII.IFF    OF    TEWKF.SIiUKY.  IOy 

"  Will  it  please  you  enter,  Mistress  Dorothy?" 
said  he,  bowing  and  holding  open  the  gate. 

"Nay.  gramercy,"  said  Dorothy,  blushing. 
"We  did  but  come  abroad  to  take  the  air.  I 
wonder  much  to  find  thee  from  the  brave  sport 
yonder." 

"  1  was  never  o'er  fond  on  't,"  he  answered, 
"still  I  have  gone  or  now,  and  might  again,  if  1 
durst  trust  my  arm  in  such  a  throng."' 

"  1  crave  thy  pardon,  Master  Helpes  !  "  exclaimed 
the  girl,  "that  I  asked  not  for  it  sooner.  Hast 
thoti  much  pain  ?  " 

"  Nay,  'tis  not  worth  naming,''  replied  Helpes, 
reddening  in  his  turn.  "  I  meant  not  to  complain. 
Thy  (ire  hath  done  wonders,  the  grief  is  gone, 
and  I  hope  to  use  it  by  the  Monday.'' 

"  It  glads  me  1o  hear  this.  And  poor  Master 
Winn,  Nurse  Hincklcy  tells  me  of.  Is  there  any 
hope  "J  " 

"(ireat  hope,''  said  Will,  emphatically.  "lie 
lo-.t  much  blood,  but  is  now  stouter,  and  they  say 
he  shall  do  well." 

Both  professed  their  joy  at  this  news.  There 
was  a  short  pause,  and  again  Helpes  pressed  them 
to  enter. 

"  Not  so.  sir,"  said  Dorothy.  "  \Ve  have  already 
detained  thee  fro:n  thy  studies  too  long." 

"  My  studies?      I  did  but  while   away  the  time." 

"Think  not  to  carry  it.  off  thus,  sir.  I  siw  thee 
put  thv  author  carefully  away,  and  1  see  now  that 
thou  art  longing  to  return  to  him.  ' 

"In  sooth,  'twas  no  such  weigh;-/  matter  of 
Tullv  or  I'ait'.rch  as  thou  mays';  think.  I  was 
readin.LC  of  sonnets." 

•'''Sonnets?  Master  Petrarch's,  T  suppose.  I 
have  s~e:i  a  dozen  of  '.hem  Knglished." 


IO8  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  Nay,  these  be  not  Petrarch's,  and  they  need 
no  putting  into  English,  for  they  were  writ  in' t." 

"  An  Englishman  write  sonnets  ?  Hath  he  done 
it  well?" 

"  By  thy  leave,  lady,  I'll  show  thee  one,  and  thou 
shalt  say  if  Petrarch  hath  done  better." 

And  taking  out  one  of  the  manuscripts  in  his 
bosom,  he  read  aloud  : 

"  When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  \vith  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  thu;  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what.I  must  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee;   and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth),  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate. 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings." 

He  read  well,  not  without  expression,  and  in  a 
deep  melodious  voice  quite  different  from  his 
ordinary  conversational  tone  :  while  the  absence 
of  the  hesitation  r-o  common  in  reading  manu 
script  showed  how  often  he  must  have  perused  the 
poem. 

Dorothy  stood  motionless,  the  old  cloak  falling 
to  the  ground,  while  recollection  and  admiration 
mingled  in  her  features.  As  William  glanced  at 
her,  it  flashed  across  him  that  two  years  before,  in 
the  hall  rt  Charlecote,  her  lock  and  attitude  had 
been  much  the  same. 

"  'Tis  fairly  writ,  indeed,"  she  said  at  length, 
much  more  coldly  than  she  felt.  "  'Twould  pass 
with  some  of  Petrarch's,  I  doubt  not.  And  who 
is  the  poet?  And  what  fair  lady  doth  he  praise 
thus?" 


THE    BAII.IFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  109 

"  The  poet  hath  no  name  as  yet,"  said  Helpes, 
"but  he  cannot  want  it  long.     And  I  conceive  "- 
slightly    coloring — "the      sonnet  is     writ     to    a 
friend.'' 

"Oh,  sure  a  friend  could  not  inspire  him  thus? 
But  hast  thou  more  of  these  sonnets,  Master 
Helpes?  I  would  fain  see  if  he  giveth  such  good 
measure  to  every  comer." 

"  Nay,  lady,  an  thou'lt  turn  inspector,  I'll  be 
proud  to  lead  thee  through  the  market.  But  " 

Here  Dame  liinckley,  who  had  sauntered  to  a 
little  dist  .nee,  came  bustling  up.  "  C'ome  away  !  " 
she  cried  <o  Dorothy.  "  Baiting's  over;  didst  not 
hear  the  clapping  just  now?  'Tis  near  night,  an' 
every  knave  will  soon  be  back.  Hood  thyself,  an' 
hasten.  (Sod-den,  Master  Helpes  :  nay,  come  not 
wi'  us  ;  come  the  morrow  if  thou  lik'st,  an'  ha'  thy 
arm  sv.-addUd  again."  And  seizing  the  girl  by  the 
hand,  she  dragged  her  off,  with  but  scant  time  for 
leave-takings. 

"  A  stout  young  man,  an'  a  good-hearted,  an'  a' 
will  be  rich  some  day."  she  panted  out,  as  they 
sped  through  the  darkening  streets.  "  But  I  like 
not  to  see  him  wi's  papers  an'  books  ;  what  ha'  any 
but  priests  an'  lawers  to  do  wi'  them?  That's  the 
next  way  to  spoil  t'  eyes  an'  t'  stomach.  He'd  do 
rarely,  were  't  nrt  for  that.  But  I  trust  thou  mayst 
help  to  keep  him  fro'  them,  as  I'm  felly  mistook  if 
he  looks  in  a  book  soon  again  when  thou  art 
near." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"Then  felt  I  like  soine  watcher  of  the  skies, 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken.'' 

— K.KATS. 

DOROTHY  woke  next  n  orning  at  her  nurse's  call 
to  find  the  good  woman  standing  at  her  bedside, 
dressed  in  her  best  array. 

"  I'n  opened  church  doors  as  I'm  wont,"  said 
she,  "  now  put  thee  on,  while  I  get  t'  Sunday  ale 
an'  white  loaf,  an'  then  we  mun  haste  away  ;  I've 
half  town  to  seat." 

The  girl  was  soon  ready  for  her  breakfast,  and 
did  justice  to  the  wheaten  loaf,  though  she  could 
only  be  prevailed  on  to  sip  of  the  ale. 

"  I  like  ill  to  ha'  thee  wear  yon  grimy  clout  to 
church,"  said  the  Dame,  "but  well  I  wot  thy  gay 
hood  will  draw  more  than  wise  men's  eyes.  Stay  ! 
I  ha 't.  Turn  't  outside  in  —  'tis  a  sad-colored 
lining  —  now  'twill  do." 

They  set  forth  accordingly,  Dorothy's  costume, 
from  hood  to  shoes,  undergoing  the  closest  scru 
tiny  from  the  women,  and  what  could  be  seen  of 
her  features  being  as  narrowly  scanned  by  the 
men.  Several  youths,  whose  pasty  faces,  gnarled 
hands,  or  awkward  gait,  told  their  occupations 
more  plainly  than  ruffles  or  swords  could  deny 
them,  showed  signs  of  making  up  to  her,  but  were 
in  every  case  repulsed  by  the  truculent  mien  of 
her  guardian. 

"I  fear  none  o'  these  half-sirs,"  said  Dame 
Hinckley,  as  she  repelled  the  advances  of  one 


THE    1SAII.IFF    OF    TEWKESlil'RV.  Ill 

smirking  lad.  "  I  ha'  made  better  stand  back  ; 
yet  I  hope  'twill  not  be  long  or  there's  a  stronger 
arm  than  t'  owd  woman's*for  thee  to  lean  on." 

Arrived  at  the  church,  Dorothy  was  placed  in  a 
dark  corner,  whence,  almost  unseen,  she  could 
view  the  exertions  of  her  nurse  properly  to  mar 
shal  the  congregation.  No  court  master  of  cere 
monies  could  have  a  better  idea  of  the  grades  of 
rank  than  had  1  lame  Ilinckley,  in  her  way,  and 
nothing  was  left  untried  by  her,  from  an  entreating 
look  to  a  heavy  thump,  that  might  help  on  the  end 
she  sought. 

The  long  sermon  was  at  last  over,  and  the  pair 
reached  home  again,  the  dame  fetching  a  sigh  of 

O  7  O  O 

relief  as  she  shot  the  bolt. 

"  That's  well  done,''  said  she,  "  but  'tis  a  heavy 
charge,  a  fair  young  lady.  If  I  can  but  keep  thee 
fro'  t'  gentry  !  —  J5ut  here  comes  baker's  lad,  wi' 
t'  roast  fowl." 

Dinner  was  scarcely  over  when  William  Helpes 
made  his  appearance,  clad  in  a  suit  of  rich 
material,  but  sober  color,  with  no  attempt  to  shine 
above  his  rank  by  the  use  of  silk  or  plumes  ;  while 
instead  of  the  long  rapier  then  worn  by  fashion 
ables,  a  short  straight  back  sword,  with  a  small 
buckler  hanging  on  its  hilt,  swung  by  his  side. 

The  first  inquiries  were  after  his  arm  ;  and,  much 
against  his  will,  he  was  obliged  to  submit  to 
another  examination  and  dressing  of  the  wound, 
which  however  appeared  so  much  improved  that 
it  was  not  likely  to  need  further  attention. 

"  I  came,"  said  he,  when  this  business  was  over, 
"  to  ask  Mistress  Dorothy  if  she  would  not  take 
the  air  upon  the  Ham  this  fine  even." 

"What  thinkst  thou,  nurse?"  said  Dorothy 
aside.  "Were't  well  1  went?  Is  't  safe?" 


112  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  Thou  canst  not  be  safer  than  with  Master 
Helpes." 

"  But  thou  must  come  too." 

"  Surely.  I'll  be  proud  to  follow  ye  to  meadow, 
town,  market  or  church.' 

Dorothy  bit  her  lip,  and  turning  to  Helpes  said 
that  she  would  be  glad  of  the  walk.  He  accord 
ingly  went  down  to  the  street  to  wait  until  they 
should  be  ready. 

"Nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  as  she  donned  her  gear, 
"  thou  hast  twice  or  thrice  broke  jests  on  Master 
Helpes  and  myself,  which  may  not  pass.  I  go 
with  him  now,  for  I  would  not  be  disgracious  to 
one  who  hath  served  me  so  nearly,  and  suffered 
therefor  ;  but  I  think  not  ever  to  marry  ;  and  even 
were  't  not  so  with  me,  thou  knowest  a  Lucy  may 
not  wed  out  of  her  rank." 

"Thy  father  thought  a  Markham  might,"  was 
the  answer. 

Dorothy  flushed  angrily,  and  was  only  pacified 
by  Dame  Hinckley's  begging  pardon,  and  promis 
ing  not  to  repeat  the  offence. 

The  three  were  soon  on  their  way  to  the  Ham, 
Dorothy  leaning  on  Helpes'  arm,  and  her  nurse 
walking  a  little  behind. 

"  'Tis  a  fair  town  this,"  she  began. 

"  Ay,  in  sooth,"  replied  Helpes.  "  Hast  seen 
the  Abbey  and  the  Town  Hall?"  Dorothy 
nodded.  "And  the  'Bloody  Meadow'?  and  the 
river?  'Tis  said  there's  no  fairer  river  in  Britain 
than  the  Severn.  Thou  shouldst  take  boat  on  it 
some  day  and  row  down.  And  at  the  spring  tides, 
if  thou'lt  walk  by  it  i'  the  spate,  thou  mayst  see 
the  eger  come  up,  foaming  like  a  boar —  'Tis  a 
sight  worth  seeing." 

They  had  now  entered  the  Ham.     The  great 


THE    r.AILlF 


meadow  was  scattered  over  with  detached  couples 
and  small  companies  of  the  townsfolk,  some  stroll 
ing  and  resting,  some  engaged  in  games  of  various 
kinds,  or  watching  the  performances  of  mounte 
banks  and  jugglers. 
Turning  to  the  least 
frequented  part,  they 
were  soon  in  toler 
able  quiet. 

'•'  Master  Helpes," 
:aid  Dorothy  pres 
ently,  '•  hath  thy  poet 
writ  but  one  sonnet, 
and  that  to  a  friend  ? 
1  would  hear  how  he 
doth  address  a  lady.'' 

"  lie  hath  many 
such,''  said  William, 
"but  I  fear  one  only 
is  in  my  memory. 
Wilt  thoti  choose  to 
hear  it?" 

Dorothy  signified 
her  pleasure,  and  the 
young  man  began  : 

"  When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  sec  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  heauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  Lively  knights, 
Then  in  the  bla/.on  of  sweit  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eve,  of  brow, 
I  sue  tlie  r  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 
Kven  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now, 
So  all  their  pra  ses  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring, 
And  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing. 
So  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise." 


114  'J'HK    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

Dorothy  listened  with  close  attention,  scarcely 
drawing  breath. 

"  'Tis  beautiful,"  said  she  when  he  had  finished, 
"  most  beautiful ;  but  how  dost  know  that  he  ad 
dresses  a  lady  here,  Master  Helpes?  He  says  not 
even  '  she  ' ;  much  less  mentions  a  name." 

"Thou  art  ill  to  please,"  answered  her  com 
panion,  "  last  time  we  spoke  on  this,  thou  wouldst 
have  it  friendship  could  not  inspire ;  and  now 
thou  askest  for  proof  that  this  is  not  to  a  friend." 

"I  think  indeed  proof  i;  needed,"  said  Dorothy. 

"  But  see,  he  speaks  of  her  beauty  ;  sure,  a  man 
would  not  praise  another  man's  beauty." 

"  Why  not,  when  he  hath  just  spoke  of  '  lovely 
knights'?" 

"But  likewise  of  '  ladies  dead.'  " 

"  Well,  an'  't  be  to  a  lady  dead,  we  shall  not 
quarrel.  But  I  would  fain  see  one  to  a  living  lady. 
Hath  he  any  such?  " 

"  In  sooth,  I  think  so.  I  have  some  half  score 
at  home.  I  will  look  thee  one  out." 

"  Half  score  ?  Have  a  care  thou  abuse  not  my 
belief,  Master  Helpes.  I  shall  begin  to  think  thou 
hast  writ  these  same  sonnets  to  thyself." 

"I  trust  I  am  no  such  false  coxcomb—  "  be 
gan  Helpes,  very  hotly  ;  then,  collecting  himself, 
"  I  prithee  pardon  my  warmth,  lady  ;  Tewkesbury 
temper  is  soon  up.  But  I  tell  thee  naught  but 
truth.  I  know  that  these  sonnets,  which  I  shall 
ever  uphold  for  the  best,  were  writ  to  diverse 
persons  ;  some  to  a  friend,  some  to  a  lady." 

As  Dorothy  did  not  immediately  answer,  he 
added,  lowering  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  "  I 
must  seem  the  rudest  clown  in  Britain ;  but  I 
should  sorely  grieve  to  offend  thee." 

"Nay,"    said     the     girl    smiling,    "Tewkesbury 


THK     liAII.IKF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  115 

temper  hath  served  me  so  well  of  late,  I  must  not 
quarrel  with  it ;  in  truth,  I  am  not  angry." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  took  and 
closely  pressed. 

"Then  thou  knowest  this  poet?"  she  resumed. 
"Some  grave  and  weighty  ancient,  I  trow,  with  a 
bald  pate,  and  a  great  beard." 

"  Not  so  ;  he  is  some  four  years  younger  than 
myself." 

"Thou  art  most  exact,"  laughed  Dorothy.  '•'  It 
should  seem,  then,  that  he  stands  between  us." 

"Ay,"  said  \Villiam,  "but  as  a  bridge,  I  trust, 
not  as  a  wall." 

"  I  have  heard  that  sore  battles  have  been 
fought  on  bridges;  but  I  hope  we  shall  not  fall  at 
strife  over  him." 

"  I  should  count  it  a  sad  mischance  to  fall  at 
strife  with  thee,  Mistress  :  tho'  thou  mayest  think 
I  have  given  but  an  indifferent  sample  of  my 
peaceful  humor." 

"Thou  wouldst  fight  for  thy  friend,  no  doubt,  as 
well  as  thou  didst  for  thy —  -for  a  stranger:  yet  I 
can  conceive  of  thee  as  most  peaceful  by  times  : 
but  to  take  up  the  tale  again,  sir,  where  dwells  this 
poet?  and  what  is  his  name?" 

"lie  dwells  in  London,  now;  that  is,  for  the 
time,"  said  Helpes,  halting  and  stammering  as  lie 
began  to  reflect  whether  it  were  wise  to  tell  Sir 
Thomas'  niece  too  much  of  Shakespeare. 

"Was  he  of  this  town?"  pursued   Dorothy. 

"  Xay,  —  from  Stratford." 

"  And  his  name  ?  " 

"  William,  like  mine  own,"  replied  Helpes,  rurtly. 

Dorothy  durst  ask  no  more.  Conviction  was 
almost  certainty,  and  though  drawn  on  by  a  sort 
of  fascination  in  her  last  inquiries,  she  felt  that 


Il6  THK    1 '.All. IFF    OK    TEWKESBURY. 

the  name  of  Shakespeare  -would  be  more  than 
she  could  bear.  Alternately  flushing  and  pal 
ing,  she  walked  en  for  some  distance  in  perfect 
silence 

Helpes,  who  had  feared  at  one  time  that  he 
should  be  driven  either  to  rudeness  or  falsehood, 
was  at  first  lelieved,  but  presently,  looking  at  his 
chaige,  felt  more  concern  for  her  than  comfort 
for  himself. 

"  Thou  art  not  well,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  he  cried, 
"  sure,  this  walk  hath  been  too  much  for  thee." 

"  Nay,  I  am  well  enow,"  she  answered.  "  But 
let  us  stand  awhile.  See  ho\v  far  Dame  Hinckley 
lags  behind." 

They  stood  a  few  moments,  and  then  Dorothy 
attempted  a  new  subject.  "  Thy  father  is  well,  I 
trust,  Master  Helpes?" 

"  Ay,  hale  and  hearty,"  said  Will.  "  He  spends 
his  life  between  his  house  and  the  works.  He 
hath  prospered  in  the  business,  and  bred  me  up 
to  it  :  but  I  love  the  fields  better.  1  go  next 
Thursday  to  see  to  some  land  of  his  near  Charle- 
cote." 

"  If  it  charge  thee  not  too  heavily,"  said  Dorothy, 
as  carelessly  as  she  could,  "  I  would  ask  thee  to 
bring  me  back  word  how  my  uncle  and  his  family 
do/ 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  tell  thee." 

"  But  speak  not  of  me  there,"  said  she,  trying 
to  remember  exactly  how  much  Helpes  knew  of 
her  position,  and  whether  she  had  said  aught  at 
the  time  of  her  rescue  beyond  asking  to  be  con 
veyed  to  her  nurse's  home.  "  I  may  abide  here 
some  while." 

Her  companion  bowed  silently. 

"  And,  Master  Helpes,  if  thou  canst  find  space 


THK     ISAII.IFF    OK    TKWKKSRURY.  117 

to  bring  me  another  of  thy  friend's  sonnets  ere 
thou  goest,  I  shall  like  well." 

"  1  will  certainly  do  so." 

Dame  Hinekley  now  came  up,  and  the  three 
took  their  way  into  the  town. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
In  which  I  told  another's  l.-vo 
Interpieted  mine  own.'' 


DOROTHY  saw  no  more  of  William  Helpes  until 
Wednesday  evening,  and  had  abundant  oppor 
tunity  for  reflecting  on  her  discoveiy  of  the  per 
sonality  cf  his  poet  friend.  At  his  name  all  the 
remembrances  connected  with  him  had  rushed 
over  her  like  a  flood,  and  she  began  to  wonder  if 
her  fate  were  not  in  some  way  connected  with 
his. 

"  I  must  be  wary,"  she  thought.  "  One  care 
less  speech  of  praise  from  me  hath  been  enough 
to  drive  me  from  my  uncle's  house,  and  send  my 
poor  cousin,  perchance,  to  his  death.  I  must 
take  heed  that  this  brave  and  honest  townsman 
be  not  estranged  from  his  friend  through  me." 

In  the  meantime  she  had  the  satisfaction  of 
some  employment,  as  Dame  Hinckley  had  pro 
cured  her  the  materials  for  a  piece  of  embroidery, 
.and  assured  her  of  its  ready  sale  to  one  of  the  great 
ladies  of  the  town. 

She  was  sitting  at  her  frame  during  the  Dame's 
usual  evening  absence,  when  she  heard  a  rap  at 
the  door  below,  and  on  looking  out,  perceived 
Helpes  standing  expectantly  anearthe  house  front. 
Not  liking  either  to  go  out  or  to  admit  him  while 
alone,  she  went  down,  and  opened  a  small  case 
ment  window  beside  the  doorway. 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKESBURY.  119 

"Good-even,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  said  he,  smil 
ing  before  he  bowed.  '•'  I  go  up  the  river  early  on 
the  morrow,  and  shau  be  pleased  to  serve  thee  in 
any  v/av." 

"I  thank  thee,  sir,"  ^aid  Doroihy,  acknowledg 
ing  his  greeting,  and  surmising  that  he  spoke  thus 
vaguely  with  respect  to  listeners.  '•'  I  trust  thou 
wilt  have  fair  angling,  '.'."he  luces  on  the  heads  of 
Avon  should  be  in  good  case.  Pray  fetch  me 
what  thou  canst  of thtin." 

"  1  know  them  well,"  replied  William.  "  Tis 
a  brave  fish,  and  thou  shall  have  all  I  can  bring  of 
them,  lint  here  is  another  of  the  sonnets  we 
spoke  upon,  which  J  have  copied  out  for  thee.  I 
trust  thou  wilt  like  it  well.  And  though  he  speak 
of  his  years  and  weariness,  thou  knowest  that  is 
ho\v  the  youngest  write." 

Dorothy  took  the  roll,  and  was  about  to  open  it. 

"  Nay,  nav,"  said  Helpes,  laughing  and  coloring, 
"  I  prithee  read  it  not  till  I  am  gone." 

But  she  had  already  begun  the  lines  : 

"  That  time  of  year  thou  dost  in  me  behold 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  tew,  or  none,  do  hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  agair.st  the  cold, 

liare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  tin:  sweet  birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadtth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second    self,  that  seals  u]>  all  in  rest.  j 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  ol  such  tire  ] 

That  on  the  ashes  <  f  his  youth  di.tli  lie, 

As  the  death-bed  \\hereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 

This  thou  perceives!  \\hich  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long." 

"  He  writes  indeed  like  a  youth  of  a  great  age," 
she  said. 

"  Well  spoken,  lady!  "  exclaimed  Helpes.    "  He 


I2O  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKF.SHVRV. 

is  truly  a  youth  of  a  gre:.t  age.  When  he  was 
but  sixteen,  methought  he  knew  more  than  the 
oldest  man  in  the  land  :  yet  high-mettled  as  any 
barb.  Seest  thou  here,  how  smoothly  and  how 
fairly  he  speaks  of  these  dismal  sights,  and  makes 
a  sweet  melody  of  them  all  ?  Few  things  there 
are  his  limbeck  cannot  still  ;  naught  ever  came 
amiss  to  him  or  from  him." 

Dorothy  listened  in  some  surprise  to  this 
eulogy. 

"  'Twere  sad  pity,  Master  Helpes,"  said  she, 
"that  I  had  read  this  alone,  as  thou  didst  desire. 
I  had  not  then  heard  how  well  thou  canst  speak 
for  a  friend." 

"  He  needs  not  my  well  speaking,"  answered  Will, 
"but  'tis  right  I  should  show  I  can  value  him." 

"  Hast  knov.-n  him  long?" 

"  Great  part  of  our  lives  ;  and  did  I  wish  for 
fame,  I  would  choose  none  better  than  to  be 
spoken  on  as  his  friend." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I  Dorothy,  "  I  wish  thee  all  suc 
cess.  But  wilt  not  enter?  I  see  my  good  nurse 
come  up  the  way." 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  cannot  stay.  I  did  but  come  to 
say  I  should  be  three  days  gone.  T.ook  thou  for 
a  fair  budget  cf  luces." 

He  bowed  and  departed,  while  Dorothy,  hasten 
ing  up  stairs,  was  at  work  again  ere  Dame  Hinck- 
ley's  entrance. 

At  the  first  moment  of  leisure  and  solitude,  she 
examined  the  roll  William  had  left  with  her.  It 
contained  the  sonnet,  fairly  enough  copied  out, 
though  with  one  or  two  small  erasures  and  altera 
tions  ;  and  at  the  foot,  among  some  ornamental 
flourishes,  stood  the  cramped  title  "  Willm 
Shaksper." 


THE    IUILIIT    OK    TFAVKESBURY.  121 

The  confirmation  of  her  belief  was  at  first  al 
most  grateful,  as  she  felt  that  she  need  no  longer 
struggle  against  so  many  proofs,  and  that  her  ad 
miration  for  Shakespeare  was  becoming  justified. 
No  longer  need  she  think  of  him  as  the  com 
panion,  ill  assorted  it  might  be,  but  still  the  com 
panion,  of  poacheis  and  vagabonds.  The  jewel  had 
now  found  its  proper  setting  :  and  she  would 
scarcely  have  felt  surprise  at  hearing  that  the  ris 
ing  poet  would  soon  become  the  greatest  man  in 
England.  Again  and  again  the  face  which  had 
quelled  an  angry  judge,  and  inspired  a  careless 
child,  rose  before  her  mental  vision,  till  she  was  in 
a  frame  little  short  of  worship. 

Helpes,  who  had  proved  himself  capable  of  win 
ning  and  appreciating  such  a  friend,  was  also 
raised  not  a  little  in  her  opinion,  which  his  courage 
and  kindness  had  already  made  favorable. 

While  such  musings  as  these  occupied  her  mind, 
the  greater  part  of  each  day  was  spent  at  her 
frame,  the  embroidery  growing  rapidly  under  her 
skilful  fingers,  to  the  great  admiration  of  her  worthy 
nurse. 

On  Saturday  evening,  just  as  Dame  Hinckley 
was  setting  out  on  her  wonted  journey  to  the 
church,  Dorothy  heard  some  parley  below,  and 
presently  the  good  woman  came  posting  up. 

"  Master  Helpes  seeks  thee,  dear,"  said  she. 
"  Kh  !  but  thou's  made  him  forget  his  m  Miners. 
'A  ne'er  bade  me  god-den,  but  says  forthright,  '  Is 
Mistress  I  )orothy  within  ?'  staring  past  me.  MI'  I 
were  t'  doorpost.  'She's  within,'  says  I,  'an' 
within  she  stays,  if  thou  casnt  speak  an  mvd  friend 
fair.'  Then  'a  came  down,  1  trow." 

Dorothy  made  no  answer,  nor  even  turned  her 
head. 


122  THE   BAILIFF  OF   TEWKESBURY. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  said  the  dame,  "  dunnot  sit 
there  no  longer.  T'  light  goes.  Come,  he  has 
much  to  tell  thee.  Ye  may  walk  to  church  \vi'  me, 
an  hear  t'  news,  while  I  redd  up.  Come,  thou  's 
not  tasted  fresh  air  these  two  days." 

Suffering  herself  to  be  persuaded,  the  girl  took 
her  cloak  and  followed  her  nurse  down  stairs. 
Helpes,  with  a  face  impatient  for  happiness,  stood 
at  the  threshold  ;  and  a  vainer  damsel  might  have 
been  enlightened  by  the  eager  gladness  of  his 
greeting.  Quietly  returning  his  salutation,  she 
took  hi.;  arm,  and  the  pair  followed  Dame  Hinck- 
ley  along  the  street. 

"  I  walks  behind  ye  when  ye  go  a  pleasuring, 
as  reason  is,"  the  good  woman  had  said,  "but 
now  I  be  in  church  service." 

"  And  what  news  from  Charlecote,  Master 
Helpes?"  inquired  Dorothy.  "Are  my  uncle  and 
aunt  and  —  and  my  cousin  well  ?  "  In  spite  of  her 
deter  nination  to  speak  firmly,  she  could  not  keep 
a  littb  tremor  from  her  voice,  as  she  named  the 
cause  of  her  wanderings. 

"  Sir  Thomas  and  his  lady  were  in  good  health, 
as  I  was  told,"  replied  Will.  "  Thy  cousin  was  just 
returned  from  London,  and  'tis  said  he  shall  soon 
wed  Master  Arnold's  daughter." 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words  he  looked  askance 
at  Dorothy,  to  satisfy  a  suspicion  of  jealousy. 
But  the  joyful  relief  she  showed  dispelled  his 
doubts. 

"  I  am  glad  indeed  to  he*ir  this,"  said  she. 
"  I  know  naught  cf  Mistress  Arnold,  but  no  doubt 
she  is  v.-ell  chosen,  r.nd  'twill  bring  his  mother 
great  content  " 

They  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  Helpes 
considering  if  he  should  tell  Dorothy  more  of  what 


THK    IUILIFF    OK   TKWKESUURV.  123 

he  had  learned,  which  was,  that  she  was  commonly 
supposed  to  have  fled  to  London  by  concert  with 
her  cousin  :  that  Sir  Thomas,  in  this  belief,  had 
made  various  fruitless  efforts  to  trace  her  in  that 
direction,  until  his  son's  return  had  partly  per 
suaded  him  of  his  mistake  :  and  that  now,  fearful 
of  some  other  escapade  on  the  y^ung  man's  part, 
he  was  hastening  on  his  marriage.  Joe  Tuff,  who 
could  have  thrown  much  light  on  these  matters, 
had  judged  it  best  to  keep  the  tale  of  Dorothy's 
adventures  to  himself. 

While  he  thus  pandered  his  companion  ad 
dressed  him. 

"  1  have  to  thank  thee  for  the  sonnet,  Master 
Helpes,  'twas  fairly  writ,  indeed  :  notably  the 
name  of  the  author." 

"  Was  't  so?  "  exclaimed  Helpes.  "  Did  I  copy 
that  with  the  rest?  1  meant  it  not.  But  no 
matter.  Many  will  know  the  name  or  long,  me- 
thinks." 

"  Through  thee  ?  " 

"Nay,  through  himself." 

"Thou  believest  him  capable  of  much,  then?  " 

"Of  all  —  save  unfaith  or  cowardice." 

Dorothy  perhaps  had  never  felt  more  kindly  to 
wards  Helpcs  than  when  he  thus  sp  )ke  the  praises 
of  the  friend  who  was  destined  to  be  in  some  sort 
his  lival  :  and  the  smiles  which  lighted  her  face 
drove  from  William's  mind  all  thought  of  prudence 
or  delay.  Thev  were  row  wait  rg  without  the 
(Tureh  f>r  the  D  me's  reappearance,  r.nd  ere  he 
knew  what  he  did  Will  had  taken  Dorothy's  hand 
and  b<  1:1:11  his  spc<  eh. 

"Mistress  Lucy,"  said  lie,    "a.    poor   tov/nsman, 

such  as  I,  may  scarce  dare  to  ask  aught  of   a  lady 

—  if  it  be  not  to   give  up   all   for   his    sake.      Wilt 


124 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 


have  me  to  thy  husband  ?  I  love  thee  truly,  and 
that's  more  than  e'er  I  said  to  any  woman  since 
my  mother  died.  If  thou  canst  wed  a  burgess' 
son,  he  will  never  give  thee  room  to  repent." 


Before  he  had  finished  Dorothy  had  drawn  away 
her  hand  and  the  color  began  mounting  in  her 
face. 

"  Master  Helpes,  thou  hast  done  so  much  for 
me  of  late  that  I  would  fain  say  nay  as  softly  as  I 
can  :  but  nay  it  must  be." 


THE    I'.AILIFF    OF    TEWKESliURV.  125 

"  I  have  frighted  thee  perchance,"  said  he, 
"  I  spoke  too  soon  :  but  give  me  leave  to  wait 
awhile.  What?"  as  Dorothy  determinedly  shook 
her  head,  "  is  'tvain?  Then  I'll  trouble  thee  no 
more  :  only  ttll  me,  prithef,  am  I  too  late  ?  hath 
some  luckier  man  stept  in  before?"  as  his 
thoughts  again  reverted  to  her  cousin. 

"  X.iy,  not  so,"  said  Dorothy.  "There  is  no 
other  —  that  is — ,"  her  ideal  ever  in  mind, 
"no  other  whom  I  love  or  would  wed." 

Helpes  turned  his  face  away  for  a  few  moments, 
and  when  he  next  spoke  it  was  in  an  altered  voice. 

••  M'iy  1  see  thee  still  by  times,  Mistress  Dor 
othy?  I  should  grieve  to  lose  thee  wholly;  and 
some  day  1  imy  serve  thee  again." 

"  1  sh  ill  ever  be  glad  to  see  Master  Helpes,  as 
at  first,"  replied  the  girl. 

I), nne  Hinckley  now  appeared,  and  the  three 
took  their  way  homeward,  much  more  silently  than 
they  had  come.  Helpes  made  some  excuse  to 
depart  at  the  alley  corner,  to  the  great  discontent 
of  the  Dame. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain." 

—  COLERIDGE. 

IT  was  a  glorious  day  late  in  April,  a  year  and  a 
half  after  the  events  of  the  last  chapter.  A  soft 
southerly  wind  drove  great  masses  of  cloud  across 
the  sky.  Now  and  then  a  brief  shower  would  come 
leaping  down,  followed  by  a  radiant  sunburst  and 
a  fleeting  rainbow,  while  from  every  side  sounded 
the  joyous  cries  of  beast  and  bird,  exulting  in 
another  lease  of  life. 

Two  young  men  walked  the  Ham  in  close  con 
versation  :  William  Helpes,  and  his  friend  Shakes 
peare.  The  former  was  little  changed,  save  that 
he  wore  deep  mourning ;  the  latter  may  best  be 
described  by  saying  that  his  countenance,  fulfilling 
the  promise  of  early  youth,  bore  the  look  of  one 
coming  into  his  kingdom. 

"And  when  didst  say  thy  father  sickened?" 
asked  the  poet  of  Helpes,  who  had  been  explain 
ing  some  of  his  affairs. 

"  Near  Yule-tide." 

"And  his*  death  followed  hard  upon?" 

Helpes  nodded. 

"Well,  thou  hast  done  all  proper  rites  and  decked 
his  tomb ;  and  see,  thou  stand'st  alone.  Why 
dost  not  wed,  as  I  have  bid  thee  so  oft?  " 

"  Truly,  thou  hast  spared  neither  precept  nor 
example,"  replied  William,  smiling,  "  but  thou 
knowest  two  words  go  to  that  bargain." 


THF.    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKKSBURY.  127 

"Nay,  fear  not  the  \vonian-word.  'Twill  not  be 
wanting.  Where  is  she  would  disdain  thee?" 

"  Thou  hast  ever  spoke  well  for  me,  \Yill,"  said 
the  other,  "  but  let  any  man  troubled  with  "anity 
go  courting,  and  I'll  warrant  him  a  cure." 

"That  speech  had  ill-luck  to  its  sire,''  said 
Shakespeare.  "  \Vho  is  the  fair  Touch-me-not,  I 
prithee  ?  " 

"  That  I  must  not  say.  Let  us  speak  of  more 
likely  matters.  Mow  come  on  the  plays?" 

"  As  a  tired  horse  comes  on,"  said  the  young 
dramatist.  "  'Tis  ill  vamping  other  men's  shoon. 
But  I  have  somewhat  of  mine  own  in  hand  prom 
ises  better,  methinks." 

"Ay,  let's  hear  it  soon.  Now  thou  hast  seen 
the  court  ladies,  then  canst  fashion  forth  as  fair 
dames  as  any,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Thou  might'st  think  so.  But  she  who  hath 
been  my  chiefest  model  saw  never  court  or  camp. 
Thou  rememberest  the  eve  I  lay  in  Charlecote 
keep,  till  thou,  good  fellow,  cam'st  to  take  me  out? 
Her  face  was  before  me  then,  as  in  a  midsummer- 
night's  dream,  and  'tis  in  the  tables  of  my  memory 
still." 

"Mayhap,"  said  Helpes,  with  sparkling  eye,  but 
strained  voice,  "  'tis  one  with  the  lady  of  thy 
sonnets?  " 

"  1  care  not  if  I  say  it  is." 

"  And  hast  ever  seen  her  since  then?  " 

"  Nay,  not  1.  She  has  married  some  clod-pate, 
'tis  most  like,  and  I  would  not  choose  to  hear  that 
any  had  brought  her  down  to  a  nurse  and  chroni 
cler  of  ale." 

"  I  prithee,  Will,  tell  me  her  name,"  urged 
Helpes,  in  a  voice  of  such  distress  that  the  other 
stopped  and  looked  at  him  in  puzzled  wonder. 


128  THK    BAILIFF.  OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"Nay,  'tis  a  bargain,"  said  he  at  length,  "  if 
thou'lt  tell  me  what  I  asked  but  now  the  name 
of  thy  snow-cold  love." 

"  '  Tis  better  we  name  no  names,  mayhap,"  said 
Helpes  after  a  minute's  reflection.  "  Let  us  go 
down  to  the  river  and  write  on  the  sand." 

A  few  steps  brought  them  to  the  Avon's  bank, 
and  each,  turning  from  the  other,  traced  with  his 
stick  on  the  smooth  beach  ;  then,  changing  places, 
read  what  had  been  written. 

Shakespeare,  with  little  delay,  effaced  both 
names,  and  walked  rapidly  away.  Helpes,  looking 
about  him  in  bewilderment  for  some  moments, 
follo\ved  more  slowly. 

"Thou  art  not  angry,  Will,  I  trust?"  said  he, 
when  at  length  he  overtook  him. 

"  We  have  wasted  time,"  said  Shakespeare, 
curtly  ;  "  one  writing  had  served  us  both." 

"  Wilt  come  down  to  the  bowling  green,  and 
have  a  game?"  asked  Helpes. 

"  Nay,  not  now,"  said  the  other.  "  I  must  get 
back  to  mine  easy  inn.  I'll  write  thee  from  there, 
should  I  leave  as  speedily  as  the  time  demands. 
Fare  thee  well,  Will  :  we  part  not  unkindly,  but  — 
he  grasped  the  townsman's  hand  and  walked 
swiftly,  tho'  with  slightly  halting  gait,  toward  the 
walls. 

Helpes  knew  better  than  to  press  him  further  in 
his  present  mood,  and  turned  homeward  to  spend 
a  lonely  evening,  wavering  between  grief,  indigna 
tion  and  pride. 

By  the  morning,  however,  solicitude  had  con 
quered,  and  he  went  down  early  to  the  tavern,  de 
termined  to  leave  no  means  untried  towards  a 
reconciliation. 

But  the  gaping  lad  who  admitted  him  informed 


'I  Hi.     BAILIFF    OK    TKWK.KSI5URY. 


I  29 


him  that  "  Measter  Shakespeare  had  gone  with  t' 
first  peep  o'  dawn." 

"And  left  he  no  word  for  me?"  asked  Helpes, 
execrating  his  own  tardiness. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  youth  scratching  his  head,  "  He 
bid  me  gi'  thee  this."  And  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  crumpled  scrap  <;f  paper  and  held  it  out 
to  Helpes,  who,  taking  it,  emitted  the  house. 


On  reaching  a  quiet  place  his  first  care  was  to 
smooth  out  the  paper,  and  peruse  the  sonnets 
written  thereon,  which  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flattering  the  mountain  tup-;  \\ith  sovran  eye, 
Kissing  \\ith  golden  face  the  ineailo\vs  green, 
Gilding  the  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy, 
Anon  permit  the  basest  elouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  fac.-, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 


130  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TFAVKESBURY. 

Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace. 

Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 

With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  thy  brow, 

But  out,  alack  !  he  was  hut  one  hour  mine, 

The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's  sun  staineth." 

"  Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak, 
To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke? 
'Tis  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou  break 
To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face, 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak, 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the  disgrace, 
Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief  — 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still  the  loss; 
The  offender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross. 
Ah,  but  those  tears  are  pearls  which  thy  love  sheds, 
And  they  are  rich,  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds." 

With  a  groan  he  crushed  the  paper  in  his  .hands, 
and  turned  homeward.  As  he  plodded  along 
with  hanging  head,  he  nearly  ran  against  someone 
coming  in  the  opposite  direction,  and,  looking  up, 
recognized  Dorothy  Lucy. 

"Good  morrow,  lady,"  said  he.  "Thou  art 
early  afoot." 

"  I  came  to  bring  the  lotion  from  the  leech  for 
my  nurse,"  replied  Dorothy.  "  Twas  forgot  last 
night,  and  she  will  go  to  the  church  each  day,  as 
is  her  wont,  though  the  palsy  cramps  her  sadly." 

"  'Tis  an  ill  complaint,"  answered  Helpes.  "  But 
thou  art  happy  to  have  some  one  to  care  for,  and 
not  hie  to  an  empty  house,  as  I." 

"  Nay,  but  thy  mother  — 

"  My  step-mother,  thou  meanst.  Didst  not 
hear  ?  She  hath  taken  all  her  portion,  and  gone  to 


THK    11AII.IFF    OK    TF.WKESBURY.  131 

her  folk  at  Gloucester,  and  left  none  but  serving 
men  and  maids,  who  call  me  master  to  my  face, 
and  tell  each  other  behind  my  back  that  I'll  ne'er 
fill  my  father's  shoon." 

"  A  good  servant  minds  a  good  master  long," 
answered  Dorothy,  quoting  one  of  her  nurse's 
sayings. 

"  True,  he  was  a  good  master,  and  a  good  sire  ; 
the  more  lonely  house.  An  if  I  might  hope  that 
some  one  would  yet  take  pity  on  me,  and  — 

"  Thou  must  not  speak  thus,  Master  Helpes," 
interposed  Dorothy,  seeing  whither  he  tended. 
"Thou  hast  neighbors  and  friends  — 

"  Friends  !  "  said  he  bitterly.  "  Ay,  I'm  bravely 
off  for  friends,  who  have  just  fallen  out  with  the 
best  of  them." 

"  Thy  best  friend  would  sure  not  fall  out  with 
thee  so  readily,  if  at  any  wise,"  said  Dorothy, 
vaguely,  uncertain  whether  he  spoke  of  her  or 
no. 

"  I  said  not  the  blame  was  his,"  replied  Will. 
"  The  sun's  a  fair  sight  on  the  fields  ;  but  when  he 
shines  into  the  chimney  corner,  and  puts  out  the 
bit  of  firing  a  poor  man  has  laid  by  for  his  need, 
'tis  none  so  well/' 

To  this  oracular  remark  the  girl  made  no 
response,  but  saying  she  must  despatch  her  busi 
ness,  moved  onward. 

"  May  I  not  do  thine  errand  for  thee,  or  with 
thee,  Mistress  Dorothy?  '' 

"  Nay,  not  so." 

"Is  there  naught  1  can  do  to  pleasure  thee?'' 

"Ay,  surelv,  bring  me  another  of  those  sonnets 
thou  hadst  once  in  such  good  store.  (  )r  hath  thy 
poet  dropt  the  pen,  perchance?  ' 

"  He'll  ne'er  do  that.      I  feared   to  weary  thee, 


13?  THK    15AIMKK    OK    TKWKESBl/RY. 

but    shall  see    one   ere   long,"    hesilaied    Helpes, 
conscious  of  ihe  paper  in  his  doublet  front. 

"  'Tis  a  bargain,  then,"  said  Dorothy,  passing  on 
her  way- 
She  found  Dame  Hinckley  groaning  on  the  floor, 
her  temper  no  way  improved  by  a  sharp  attack 
of  rheumatism. 

"  Thou's  been  long  enow,"  she  said  querulously. 
"The  leech  kept  thee  without,  1  wot,  while  he 
mended  his  last  nap.  An  he  knew  whom  he 
served,  he'd  stir  's  bones.  Plague  on  's  worthless 
stuff,  a  drop  o'  mother's  herb  drink  'ud  pass  it 
all." 

"Lie  down  again,  nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  gently 
applying  the  lotion.  "The  sexton's  daughter  said 
she  would  do  thy  part  to-day,  if  need  were." 

"  Ay,  ay,  she'd  be  rarely  glad  to  step  into  my 
shoon,  but  I'm  none  dead  yet.  When  t'  summer 
comes,  and  I'm  less  gnawn  wi'  cramp,  I'll  gi'  her 
a  leaf  o'  palm  for  her  head,  an  she  likes.  But  'tis 
vain  strivin'  wi'  her,  poor  doited  body,  as  I  heard 
her  say  t'other  day  Master  Helpes  should  wed  a  lady 
fro' t'  south.  'Twere  grief  to  howd  my  tongue  ;  but 
I  could  ha'  towd  her  he  looked  no  further  than 's 
own  river-head.  Ay,  ay,  dearie,  thou's  comin' 
round  —  never  tell  me"--  as  Dorothy  turned  her 
head  away —  "  thou's  comin'  round.  Didna  I  see 
thee  go  about  last  week,  rathan  walk  aneath  Rob 
Mason's  ladder?  We  all  know  that  should  mean  no 
wedding  for  thee  this  year.  Ay,  thou'lt  be  a  fair 
bride  or  winter  comes  again  ;  an'  after  that,  'tis 
little  matter  how  soon  t'  owd  woman  is  aneath  the 
mouls." 


CHAITKR    XIX. 

"  I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million." 

SlIAKESPF.ARF.. 

DOROTHY,  who  could  only  obtain  privacy  when 
left  alone  in  the  garret  by  Dame  Hinckley,  sat 
clown  at  her  embroidery  frame,  and  plied  the 
needle  diligently. 

"  I  grow  old  fast,"  she  thought,  with  one  of 
those  exaggerated  fits  of  self  pity  not  uncommon 
at  nineteen.  "  My  hands  are  seamed  and  scarred 
like  those  of  two-score  with  this  rough  work,"- 
this  indeed  was  the  truest  part  of  her  indictment  — 
"  my  cheek,  sure,  is  falling  away,  and  I  found  a  grey 
hair  yestreen.  Nurse,  yonder,  cannot  live  but  few 
more  seasons  :  and  since  the  stay  I  gave  him  this 
morn,  methinks  Master  Helpes  will  come  no  more. 
I  would  not  see  him  as  a  lover,  but  'tis  sad  to 
have  no  friend  left."  And  more  than  one  tear  fell 
among  the  seed  pearls  of  her  pattern. 

That  week  and  another  passed  but  gloomily 
away.  Dame  Hinckley,  though,  as  she  expressed 
it,  "holding  like  a  rope"  to  her  church  duties, 
was  now  too  lame  f,">r  spinning,  and  faint  but  ter 
rific  mutterings  from  the  Spanish  war-cloud  gath 
ering  on  the  southern  coist  penetrated  even  to 
secluded  Tewkesbury.  William  Helpes  had  not  vis 
ited  the  house  f.)r  a  fortnight,  and  both  the  Dame 
and  Dorothy  began  to  surmise  that  his  constancy 
had  been  tried  too  far.  Their  resultant  feelings 
differed,  vet  not  so  widely  as  might  have  been  snp- 
I  used.  The  Dame  mingled  praises  of  true-hearted 


134  THE    I'-AILIFK    OF   TEWKESBURY. 

gentlemen,  and  denunciations  of  double-faced 
loons,  in  the  most  inconsistent  manner,  while  Doro 
thy,  though  avowing  frequently  to  herself  that  the 
end  she  sought  —  that  of  making  Master  Helpes 
forget  her  —  was  at  last  attained,  always  found  a 
small  grain  either  of  contempt,  irritation,  or  —  it 
could  not  possibly  be  grief  —  mingling  with  her 
deep  content  at  the  consummation  of  her  wishes. 

The  Sunday  afternoon  came  round,  r.nd  Dorothy, 
who  had  remained  at  home,  sat  by  the  open  case 
ment  of  the  garret,  striving  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air,  and  suffering  from  the  heat  of  an  unusually 
warm  spring  evening.  "  Alas,  these  changes," 
she  thought.  "  'Tis  scarce  two  months  r.go  one 
shook  with  cold  in  this  same  room,  and  now,  one 
scantly  breathes." 

As  she  meditated  thus  she  was  aware  of  a  well- 
dressed  man  coming  slowly  up  the  street,  scan 
ning  the  windows  and  doors  on  either  side  as 
intently  as  his  care  to  avoid  the  pools  and  rubbish 
heaps  in  his  way  would  permit. 

For  one  moment  her  heart  leaped  more  lightly 
than  her  judgment  or  reason  approved  the  next, 
when  she  saw  it  was  not  he  on  whose  absence  she 
had  made  so  many  efforts  at  complacency. 

Realizing  suddenly  that  she  was  leaning  further 
out  and  gazing  more  earnestly  than  became  a 
modest  maiden,  she  drew  back,  but  not  before 
she  had  been  recognized  by  the  stranger,  who, 
halting  and  nourishing  his  plumed  hat,  called  in 
a  low  but  penetrating  voice,  "  Mistress  Dorothy,  as 
I  think  ! "  She  was  silent,  and  he  spoke  again 
more  loudly. 

"  Doth  Mistress  Lu  — that  is  Dorothy,  dwell  here, 
or  at  the  Hall?" 

Fearing  lest  more  should  be  said  then  it  were 


THE    1SAIUKF    OK    TKWKESRURY.  135 

well  for  the  neighbors  to  hear,  Dorothy  looked 
forth. 

"What  are  your  commands,  sir?"  she  asked,  in 
as  vulgar  and  servile  a  tone  as  she  could  assume. 

"  Dost  not  remember  me?"  inquired  the  man. 
"  I  am  an  old  friend,  who  hast  much  to  say  to 
thee  ;  prithee  come  down." 

"1  will  come  to  the  little  wicket,"  said  Dorothy, 
as  faces  began  to  appear  at  the  nearest  casements. 
"Thou  must  not  stand  halloaing  thus  in  the  way." 
And  hoping  that  she  had  well  combined  civility 
and  reproof,  she  hastened  down  the  stair.  The 
stranger  awaited  her  with  his  face  pressed  close  to 
the  grate  beside  the  door. 

"  Dost  not  know  me?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  Not  I,  sir." 

"Well,  let  me  in,  and  thou  shall  know  that, 
and  many  more  weighty  matters,  which  I  have 
come  post  to  tell  thee." 

"Thy  pardon,  sir,"  said  Dorothy  firmly,  "This 
is  the  home  of  my  aunt,  Mistress  Annot  Hinckley, 
and  none  may  enter  here  while  she  is  hence." 

"Thy  aunt?  Dame  Hinckley!"  ejaculated  the 
other.  "  I'  faith,  I'm  rarely  sorry  for  thee. 
Didst  not  hear  she  was  taken  for  a  witch  but 
now  ?  ' ' 

"  ( ),  I  leaven  help  us  !  "  cried  Dorothy,  her  heart 
sinking  and  fluttering  at  these  words,  in  those 
days  both  dreadful  and  frtquent.  "Where  is 
she?  Take  me  to  her,  sir.  Sure  thou  canst  do 
somewhat  to  he1]).  My  poor  nurse,  that  never 
harmed  any  !  And  Sir  Richard,  too,  can  say  he 
hath  known  her  many  a  year 
ly  this  time  she  had  unbarred  the  door  and 
was  about  to  sally  forth  ;  but  the  visitor,  stretching 
his  arm  across,  stopped  her  way. 


136  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"There  is  no  such  haste,"  buid  he.  "Thou  hast 
done  enow.  I  did  but  try  a  master  key  on  this 
same  door,  and  it  hath  served  me  well." 

"But  my  nurse—   "  stammered  the  girl. 

"She's  safe  and  well.  Mark  what  I  said.  I 
asked  if  thou  hadst  not  heard  she  was  taken." 

"  From  none  but  thee." 

"  Neither  had  I." 

"Then  —  then  'twas  a  cruel  speech,"  faltered 
Dorothy. 

"  Nay,  nay,  pretty  one,  an  old  friend's  jest  — 
be  not  angry.  Sure  thou  knowest  me  now. 
This  same  beard,"  stroking  the  appendage  as  he 
spoke,  "  may  have  altered  me  somewhat ;  but 
dost  not  mind  the  day  I  squired  thee  from 
Evesham?"  And  Joe  Tuff,  for  he  it  was,  smirked 
and  beamed  as  if  recalling  some  valiant  exploit. 

"I  remember  thee  now,  sir,"  said  Dorothy,  her 
indignation  gathering  as  her  strength  leturned, 
"  and  I  can  truly  say  thy  nature  has  not  altered 
with  thy  face.  The  words  thou  hast  just  spoke 
are  of  a  piece  with  that  day's  gallant  deeds." 

"Tush,"  said  Tuff,  whose  brazen  assurance  was 
not  readily  overthrown,  "  I  did  the  best  I  could 
for  thee  :  many  a  man  had  sought  his  own  safety, 
nor  ridden  to  bring  thee  help.  But  let  it  pass, 
and  tell  me  how  thou  dost.  Faith,  thou  looks  but 
sadly,"  not  waiting  a  reply.  "  Beauty  endures 
not  long :  but  thou  mayest  pass  yet  a  while. 
'Twill  joy  thee  to  hear  I  have  left  Sir  Thomas  — 
my  blocd  could  brook  a  servitor's  place  no  longer 
—  and  set  up  for  mine  own  hand  r.s  law  scrivener 
in  Evesham,  where  I  doubt  not  to  do  well." 

"  I  trust  there  is  iv>  doubt  on  that  matter," 
replied  the  girl,  "  r.nd  tj  my  poor  thinking  thou 
wert  best  to  return  to  Evesham  as  soon  as  may 
be,  nor  come  hither  again." 


THE     RAII.IFF    OF    TF.\\  KKSI5URV. 


137 


''  What  ails  the  wench?"   said  Tuff.      "Why,  I 
came   here  o'   purpose   to  seek  thee,   Dorothy  — 
think  on  that.      I'm  a  rising  man,  and  thou    art 
none  so  fair  as  thou  \vert,  or   I    remembered  :   but 
I  seek  a  wife,  and  care  not  if  I  take  thee." 

"Sir,"    said    Dorothy    trembling   and    flushing, 


"didst  make  hitherto  insult  an  orphan?  Leave 
me,  and  come  no  more."  And  she  endeavored 
to  close  the  door.  But  her  unwelcome  guest,  jam 
ming  himself  between  the  posts, blocked  the  attempt. 
"In  vain!"  he  laughed  at  Dorothy's  efforts. 
"  Thou  dost  not  shuffle  me  off  so  readilv.  Hast 


138  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

never  a  manchet  or  cup  of  ale  to  offer  for  old 
times'  sake?  Why  this  is  but  a  churlish  treat 
ment,  but  if  naught  else  offers,  I'll  have  a  kiss." 
And  passing  his  arm  around  her  waist,  he  sought 
to  make  his  words  good.  Dorothy,  calling  for 
help  and  turning  her  face  away,  thrust  him  off 
with  all  her  strength.  The  half  dozen  persons 
who  had  gathered  around  the  door  looked  on  in 
huge  delight. 

"  To  her,  lad  !  To  her  !  "  cried  a  cobbler  rub 
bing  his  hands. 

"There's  no  harm  in  a  kiss,"  wheezed  an  old 
crone,  "  an  Madam  did  na'  like  him,  she  should 
ha'  kept  t'  door."  And  she  burst  into  coarse 
laughter,  wherein  a  couple  of  laundry-girls  most 
heartily  joined. 

"What  means  this,  knave?"  cried  a  stern  voice, 
and  William  Helpes'  hand  clutched  Tuff  by  the 
collar.  "Darest  thou  treat  a  lady  thus?"  And 
with  a  powerful  fling  he  hurled  the  scrivener 
through  the  row  of  bystanders  (two  of  whom 
measured  their  length  upon  the  stones)  and 
against  the  wall  of  the  opposite  house,  where  he 
fell  in  a  collapsed  heap. 

"Hath  he  hurt  thee,  dearest?"  asked  Helpes, 
turning  to  Dorothy. 

"  Nay,  not  yet,"  sobbed  the  girl,  "  but  never 
came  help  in  better  time." 

"  I'll  be  revenged,  yet,"  snarled  Tuff,  gathering 
himself  up. 

"  Revenged,  thou  cur  !  "  said  the  other  con 
temptuously.  "  And  you,"  turning  to  the  throng, 
"  Call  ye  yourself  good  townsmen  or  neighbors, 
that  could  stand  and  look  on  thus?  " 

"  Blame  me  not,  Master  Helpes,"  said  the  cob 
bler,  fawningly,  "  he  took  me  off  guard,  but  now 


THE    I5AII.1FI     OF    TEWKESBURY.  139 

—  \vhat    say  ye,  gossips,  to  take  him  down    and 
duck  him  in  the  river?  " 

With  a  shout  of  approval,  all  rushed  on  Tuff, 
who,  dropping  his  cloak  and  staff,  and  springing 
away,  flew  down  the  lane  at  a  pace  that  left  little 
hope  for  his  pursuers,  who  however  followed  at 
their  best  speed  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

Helpes  and  Dorothy  remained  standing  alone 
together  in  the  doorway  until  the  cries  of  pack 
and  quarry  had  died  away. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  Will  curtly. 

Dorothy  looked  up  surprised. 

"  Nay,  think  me  not  rude.  It  glads  me  to  have 
done  thee  some  service,  but  the  need  is  past  — 
and  —  and—  "  gazing  at  the  fair  and  well  loved 
face  before  him  — "  I  must  needs  speak  if  I  stay, 
and  speak  of  matters  which  please  thee  not,  as  I 
know  too  well.  Of  a  hand  that  would  fight  and 
fend  for  thee  at  net  d  —  a  heart  that  lies  at  thy  feet 

—  a   life   which   then  only  canst  light  or   darken. 
Tell  me,  Dorothy,  shall  I  stay  or  go?  " 

There  was  a  minute's  pause.  Then  Dorothy, 
looking  ii])  with  a  smile,  tho'  the  tears  ran  down 
her  face,  whispered  "  Stay,"  and  Will  caught  her 
in  his  arms. 

The  shouts  and  wrangling  of  the  returning 
troop  roused  the  pair  from  their  new  Kden.  "  We 
must  not  stand  here."  said  Dorothy  sliding  from 
her  lover's  embrace.  "  I  cannot  bid  thee  enter, 
and  I  would  not  drive  thee  forth." 

"We  will  both  go  forth,"  said  Will.  "  Come 
with  me  to  the  >  h.urch,  as  oH  aforetime  :  we  shall 
meet  thy  nurse  there,  and  I  trust  she  will  not  ban 
us." 

Dorothy  reached  her  hood,  and  the  two  set  out, 
passing  by  the  bowing  and  panting  throng. 


140  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"We've  gi'en  un  a  good  run,  Measter."-  -  "  He 
were  well  winded  ere  we  lost  un." — "  Stout  legs, 
weak  spirit."  Such  were  the  ejaculations. 

"  Thank  ye  —  thank  ye,  friends,"  said  Helpes. 
"  I  knew  your  hearts  were  right.  Here's  some 
what  to  slake  your  throats,  after  the  chase." 

And  distributing  three  or  four  shillings,  he 
strode  away,  holding  his  head  high,  and  drawing 
Dorothy's  arm  close  under  his  with  a  new  air  of 
ownership. 

"  'Twill  be  a  match,  for  sure,"  said  the  old 
woman  who  had  so  recently  led  in  laughter.  "  Bless 
her  bonny  face,  and  his  broad  shouthers,  there 
be  no  finer  couple  ir  the  town." 

"  A  sturdy  blade  as  need  be,"  acquiesced  the 
cobbler.  "  Look  at  's  iron  fists,  an'  long  cham 
pion  arms.  Didst  ee:  how  he  trowled  yon  fellow 
o'er  the  way,  as  'twere  a  biass  bowl." 

"  Thou  shouldst  know,  friend,"  said  the  tailor, 
"  for  thou  didst  sprawl  i'  th'  mire  from  a  touch  of 
that  same  bowl." 

"Enow  o'  that,  Snip —  enow  o'  that,"  growled 
the  cobbler,  and  both  adjourned  to  the  ale- can. 

"  Is't  possible  thou  canst  love  me,  dearest?" 
Will  was  s.iying.  "  A  gentle  lady  like  thee  to  wed 
such  a  rougii  burgess?" 

"Miscall  not  thyself,"  said  the  girl,  with  play 
ful  authority.  "Any  lady  in  the  land  might  prize 
such  a  true  and  loyal  heart." 

"A  doubting  heart,  I  fear  me,  sweetest,"  he 
answered.  "  Hadst  thou  given  me  a  third  refusal, 
I  had  never  dared  speak  again.' 

"  But  how  didst  chance  to  come  at  my  very 
time  of  need?  " 

"  Thy  own  bidding.  'Twas  but  now  I  came 
by  the  sonnet  thou  didst  ask  for,  and  I  sped  to 
bring  it.  May  I  read  it  thee  now?" 


THK    HAll.IFK    OF    'J  F.WKF.SIiURY.  141 

They  were  by  this  time  entering  the  church. 

"Dost  think  'tis  right  to  read  it  here?"  she 
asked. 

"  Thou  wilt  say  so  when  hast  heard.'' 

They  found  a  seat,  and  Will  took  out  the  paper. 
"Nay,  'tis  not  this,"  he  said  frowning.  "1  have 
it  now.''  He  thrust  back  the  first  manuscript, 
and  produced  another. 

The  spring  wind  and  sunlight  poured  through 
open  door  and  lofty  window,  rustling  and  wav 
ing  the  ancient  banners,  and  touching  brass  and 
marble  till  they  shone  through  the  shadow  ;  while 
far  away  sounded  the  faint  chant  of  a  final  an 
them.  In  a  low,  deep  voice  Helpes  read  aloud 
the  immortal  sonnet  : 

"Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediment;    love  is  not  love, 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
( )r  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove. 
( )  no  !    it  is  an  ever  fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love's  not   lime's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved.'' 

"Could  such  words  have  better  time  or  place  ?" 
said  William.  "  Here  we  plight  our  troth." 

They  kissed  each  other,  bowed  in  prayer  a 
minute,  and  then  left  the  church.  Dame  Hinckley 
awaited  them  at  the  porch,  and  her  joy  can 
scarcely  be  imagined.  She  went  from  laughter  to 
congratulations,  and  thence  to  tears,  which  ex 
hausted  her  so  much  that  Will  and  Dorothy  were 
obliged  to  lead  her  home. 


142  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

It  was  not  till  Helpes  was  well  toward  his  own 
house,  after  a  promise  to  return  early  on  the  mor 
row,  that  he  again  drew  out  the  first  manuscript 
he  had  produced  in  the  church. 

"  Twas  meant  for  her,"  he  murmured,  "but  she 
reads  it  not  yet.  Some  day,  perchance.  She 
might  like  ill  I  were  led  by  it,  but  sure  'tis  no 
shame  to  be  moved  by  such  as  he." 

He  perused  the  lines  again,  and  we  may  look 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  Farewell !   thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  knowest  thy  estimate; 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing, 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee,  but  by  thy  granting? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter 
In  sleep  a  king;    but  waking  on  such  matter." 


CHAPTER    XX. 

"  Sft  long  as  thou  doest  well  unto  thyself,  men  will  speak 
good  of  thee."  —  Psalms. 

IT  may  easily  be  supposed  that  the  discussions 
of  ways  and  means  were  many  and  long.  When 
they  concerned  the  wedding  of  a  damsel  of  Doro 
thy's  high  birth  and  breeding,  but  present  lowly 
condition,  such  must  naturally  be  the  case.  Wil 
liam  Helpes,  whose  possessions,  for  one  in  his 
station,  were  more  than  ample,  wished  her  to 
move  into  a  better  lodging,  which  he  would  pro 
vide.  Hut  here  Dorothy  was  firm. 

"This  roof  sheltered  me  first,"  said  she,  "and 
here  I  will  abide  until  I  go  to  my  husband's 
house." 

"Well,"  said  Helpes,  "if  you  will  not  leave  it 
sooner  ye  both  must  do  so  later.  Dame  Hinckley, 
thou  coinest  to  us  for  life  the  day  we  wed." 

The  good  woman's  cup  of  joy  was  now  full. 
She  had  grieved  a  little,  secretly,  over  a  solitary 
old  ag-j,  and  to  be  thus  transported  to  a  great 
hous:>,  presided  over  by  her  darling,  was  the  best 
earth  r-ould  have  given. 

"  [  thank  ye,  .Master  Helpes,"  said  she.  "  'Tis 
what  few  men  would  offer.  I  have  lived  here  many 
a  year  and  here  I  tho't  to  die  ;  but  I'll  be  proud 
and  glad  to  go  wi'  ye,  an'  I  trust  to  be  of  use  yet 
awhile." 

William's  wishes,  and  Dorothy's  unprotected 
situation,  would  both  have  bespoke  an  early  day 
for  the  wedding,  but  his  father's  recent  death  ne- 


144  THK    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESUURY. 

cessitated  some  delay,  and  the  date  was  finally  set 
for  September  i2th. 

Thus  much  having  been  settled  on  the  first  even 
ing  of  conclave,  the  groom-expectant  took  his 
leave,  and  the  two  women  went  into  the  question 
of  funds  for  the  wedding  outfit. 

"I  ha'  store  enow  o'  linen  laid  by,"  said  the 
elder,  "  but  'tis  coarse,  mean  stuff,  fit  for  a  peddler's 
wench.  An'  the  gown  thou  wearest,  the  same  as 
ever  thou  cam'st  fro'  t'  Hall  in,  has  been  darned 
so  oft  'tis  well  if  it  howds  together  till  thy  wedding 
day,  wi'  all  savenapes  can  do  :  gentles'  coats  are 
fair  to  look  on,  but  they  dunnot  last." 

"  I  shall  be  but  too  glad  of  the  linen,  nurse," 
said  Dorothy,  "  and  perhaps,"  thoughtfully,  "  I 
may  steal  time  enow  to  broider  me  a  gown." 

"That's  well  thought  on,"  cried  the  Dame. 
"  'Twill  set  thee  far  better  than  working  for  t'  town 
madams  here.  But  where  be  we  to  get  t'  veil,  an' 
shoon  for  hand  an'  foot,  an'  a  score  o'  things  a 
lady  should  wear?  Lackaday  !  had  I  t'  fi'  pounds 
now  that  feyther  left  me,  as  I  put  into  Dame 
Hickup's  chop,  an'  ne'er  saw  again  ! " 

"Wouldst  give  me  thy  all?"  said  the  girl,  with 
affectionate  reproof ;  "  but  we  must  go  to  rest 
now,  or  the  palsy  will  pinch  thee  again." 

•'Never  fear  me,"  replied  the  Dame  sturdily. 
"  This  good  news  hath  helped  me  more  than  all  the 
leech's  oil." 

Three  or  four  weeks  passed  away  in  preparation 
on  both  sides.  Dorothy  still  kept  up  her  patrons' 
embroidery,  despite  all  protests,  and  the  spare  time 
of  herself  and  nurse  was  spent  on  her  simple  out 
fit.  Every  week  they  walked  to  the  house  soon  to 
be  hers,  where  such  alterations  as  she  would  sug 
gest  or  Helpes  could  devise,  were  swiftly  carried 
through. 


THF.    IVAIM1-T    OF    TKWKKSBURY.  145 

During  May  William  was  called  away  on  one  of 
his  business  trips  to  Stratford.  He  was  absent  but 
a  few  days,  and  had  only  to  say  on  his  return  that 
he  heard  the  Lucy  family  were  as  usual,  and  that 
his  affairs  had  prospered  well. 

One  day  about  the  first  (  f  June,  as  Dorothy  sat 
singing  at  her  work,  she  was  surpiised  to  hear  the 
trampling  of  horses  on  the  pavement  below  —  a 
most  unusual  sound  in  n:irrow,  tortu:>us  Keech 
Alley.  Remembering,  however,  her  late  experi 
ence  with  Tuff,  she  kept  to  her  seat  and  occupa 
tion  until  a  knock  at  the  door  below  drew  her  to 
look  forth. 

A  young  groom,  in  familiar  livery,  holding  a  dun 
hack  by  the  bridle,  stood  on  the  step  ;  while  be 
hind  him,  on  a  stout  bay,  sat  a  dignified,  grey- 
haired  gentleman — her  uncle,  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 

1  lastening  down  stairs,  she  unbarred  the  door 
and  threw  it  open,  trembling  so  violently  that  she 
could  scarcely  recover  from  the  deep  reverence 
which  the  occasion  demanded,  or  utter  the  words, 
"  My  respectful  duty  waits  on  thee,  Sir  Thomas." 

Her  uncle  dismounted  and  came  up  to  the 
door. 

"  It  is  long  since  we  have  met,  niece,"  said  he 
austerely,  extending  his  hand,  which  she  took  and 
kissed.  "  Dickon,  bait  the  horses  at  the  next 
stabling,  come  again  at  noon."  The  man  bowed 
and  departed. 

"  And  now,  Dorothy,"  continued  her  uncle  more 
kindly,  "tell  me  how  thou  dost,  and  why  didst  flee 
away  from  thy  home,  with  never  a  word?" 

"I  —  I  feared  to  stay  longer,"  she  brought  out 
with  a  great  effort. 

"  Ah,  1  must  have  frighted  thee  sadly,"  said  Sil 
Thomas,  "but  I  meant  the  best  —I  meant  the 
best." 


146  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TKWKESBURY. 

Dorothy  invited  her  uncle  to  enter,  and  he 
stepped  within  the  door,  where  she  brought  him  a 
stool ;  then,  taking  courage,  inquired  formally  after 
Lady  Lucy  and  her  cousin. 

"Thy  aunt's  but  weak  —  weak  and  wan.  I  fear 
me  she  fails,  or  I  had  brought  her  behind  me  on 
the  pillion.  And  thy  cousin,  too,  is  but  sadly  in 
health.  Didst  he^r  he  had  wedded?"  The  girl 
assented.  "  His  wife's  name  is  the  same  as  thine, 
but  she's  not  my  Dorothy  —  that  can  never  be." 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  laid  his  hand  caress 
ingly  on  his  niece's  head.  "  But  'tis  a  comely 
young  woman,  and  a  notable,  and  she  hath  brought 
him  a  fair  daughter  of  late." 

Dorothy  expressed  her  pleasure  at  this  news. 

"Ah,  Dorothy,"  continued  her  uncle,  his  fea 
tures  relaxing  into  their  customary  cheerfulness, 
"  I  have  hunted  thee  like  a  partridge,  as  the  Scrip 
ture  saith.  Many  a  long  hour  and  many  a  broad 
piece  have  I  spent  searching  in  the  south,  when 
thou,  little  weathercock,  hadst  whirled  to  the  west. 
But  'twas  in  my  mind  thou  hadst  fled  to  London 
with- — well,  it  matters  not  with  whom.  And  I 
hear  brave  news  of  thee  now.  Thou  must  wed  a 
bold  archer,  forsooth,  and  never  a  '  An'  it  please 
ye,  Sir  Thomas,'  or  '  By  thy  leave,  uncle.'  " 

The  girl  stood  silent,  the  rebellious  thought 
passing  through  her  mind  thaf  one  who  had  caused 
and  neglected  her  sorrow  had  small  right  to 
abridge  her  happiness. 

"How  —  how  didst  hear  it,  Sir  Thomas?"  she 
asked  at  length. 

"  From  one  who  should  know,  the  lad  himself. 
I  met  him  last  week,  as  I  rode  near  Stratford  : 
we  fell  into  discourse,  and  I  drew  all  the  tale 
from  him,  an  it  had  been  a  gold  wire ;  I 


THK     JiAII.II-K    OF    TKWK.KSHURV.  147 

should  be  a  judge  of  a  man  by  this,  as  well  as  a 
judge  of  men,  and  I  find  he  ne'er  thought  to  strike 
my  deer.  'Tis  a  true,  brave  heart,  and  he  has  the 
good  word  of  all,  and  gold  and  lands,  and  a  vein 
of  gentle  blood  to  the  boot.  Tush,  Doll,"  hisjoyous 
nature  breaking  down  all  the  restraints  which  pride 
and  misconception  had  slowly  built  up,  "fear  me 
not  —  I'll  never  say  thce  nay.  My  consent  thou 
hast  —  I'll  stand  by  to  give  thy  hand  away —  we'll 
have  the  merriest  wedding  e'er  was  seen,  and  the 
good  old  times  shall  come  back  again  for  ever  and 
a  day  !  " 

And  in  the  exuberance  of  his  happiness  the  good 
knight  uttered  a  view  halloa,  which  echoed  with 
startling  effect  in  the  low  and  narrow  passage  where 
they  stood.  Dorothy  looked  around  in  some  ap 
prehension,  but  it  chanced  that  all  the  tenement's 
inmates  were  abroad,  and  no  one  appeared.  Her 
uncle,  looking  slightly  ashamed,  wiped  his  heated 
brow. 

"Thy  aunt  sent  her  love,"  he  began  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  her  dearest  love,  and  she  hoped  to  see 
thee  soon  —  sure,  the  summer  will  set  her  up 
again.  And — and  thou'lt  come  and  be  married 
from  Charlecote  ?  " 

This  question  was  asked  with  some  embarrass 
ment ;  and  Dorothy,  forseeing  many  difficulties 
attending  this  arrangement,  declared  her  steady 
purpose  of  remaining  where  she  was. 

"Well,  well,  it  may  be  best.  A  bride  must  have 
her  way.  Thy  cousin  Tom,"  went  on  the  worthy 
justice,  "  he  is  poorly,  as  I  said,  or  he  had  ridden 
with  me  —  but  then  hast  his  best  wishes  —  and 
could  he  do  r.ueht  to  serve  thee  — 

Sir  Thomas  halted  and  stammered  so  much  that 
his  niece,  rightly  supposing  him  to  be  the  composer 


148  THE    BAILIFK    OF    TEWKESBURV. 

rather  than  the  bearer  of  these  felicitations,  broke 
in  with  thanks  and  disavowals. 

"And  now,  Dorothy,"  said  her  uncle,  turning  to 
the  stair,  "  let  us  see  the  nook  where  thou  hast 
nestled  all  these  months." 

"  'Tis  a  poor  place — not  fit  for  thee,  Sir 
Thomas." 

"Call  me  uncle,"  said  he  resolutely,  "and  let 
me  see  thy  home." 

Very  unwillingly  Dorothy  showed  him  to  Dame 
Hinckley's  garret.  Her  uncle  was  evidently  pre 
pared  for  «i  small  lodging,  but  apparently  the  reality 
exceeded  his  ideas,  for  he  looked  about,  hummed 
a  tune,  and  finally  exclaiming,  "  Any  port  in  a 
storm,"  turned  down  the  stairs  again. 

"I  sec  Dickon  yonder,"  said  he.  after  a  few 
minutes'  reflection.  "  I  must  go.  We  will  come 
soon  again  —  here's  a  small  portion  for  thee,  Doll  ; 
nay,  no  thanks  —  my  own  niece  must  not  go 
dowerless,  bless  thee  ;  fare  thee  well  !"  He  kissed 
her  and  departed. 

Dame  Hinckley  returned  a  few  minutes  later  to 
find  her  charge  weeping  violently  over  a  large 
purse. 

"  How  now,  dearie  ?  \Yhat  hath  chanced  to  bring 
thy  tears  ?  Aught  of  ill  ?  " 

Dorothy,  wiping  away  her  tears  and  explaining 
the  situation,  set  the  good  woman  almost  beside 
herself  with  rapture. 

"  'Tis  well  my  wcik  is  i'  th'  church,"  said  she, 
"  or  I  could  ne'er  do  another  hand's  turn.  I  be 
fain  mazed.  And  Sir  Thomas  ha'  stood  in  this 
same  spot?  Eh,  'tis  just  t'  way  o'  t'  world:  all 
forgi'  a  bride.  And  now  thou  mayst  be  set  forth 
as  becomes  thee  wi'  store  o'  silk  and  taffety,  an' 
hosen  an'  lace  —  " 


•nil-:   r.Aii.iiT  OF  Ti-:wKKsi:ruY.  149 

"And  a  pair  of  virginals,  and  an  ambling  pal 
frey,  and  a  blackamoor  slave,  perchance,"  said 
Dorothy,  smiling.  "My  uncle  hath  been  most 
kind  and  generous  :  and  I  grant  his  gift  sets  me 
much  at  ease  :  but  u  e  must  not  be  over  hasty,  or 
forget  that  I  am  to  be  a  citizen's  wife." 

(  );i  examination  the  purse  was  found  to  contain 
a  bun  Ire  d  pieces  of  gold,  amply  sufficing  for  all 
1  )or.>thv's  occasions. 

It  \v.ia  a  week  or  two  later  that  the  bride-expect 
ant  and  her  guardian  set  forth  on  their  first  expe- 
diti  y.\  to  the  chief  mercer  in  Tewkesbury. 

The  s'u>pm:in  received  them  with  the  readiness 
of  a  business  m:in  who  wishes  neither  to  affront  a 
customer,  n:;r  lavish  t  x>  much  deference. 

"What  d'ye  lack,  gentlewomen?"  he  cried, 
taking  up  the  burden  which  the  prentice  sang 
without.  "Dame  Hinckley,  I  wot  —  -  and  thy 
niece  will  wed  ay,  rosy  country  cheeks!  Shall 
I  cut  one  of  our  Tewkesbury  woolens?  or  here's 
grogram,  will  make  a  brave  gown  piece  for  a  stout 
yeoman's  wife." 

"'Country  cheeks  !  Yeoman's  wife  !  "  ejaculated 
the  Dame.  "  I'll  have  thee  know,  Master  Simon, 
this  is  kin-.woman  to  Sir  — 

"  Xay,  nay,  nurse  —  peace,  I  prithee,"  entreated 
Dorothy. 

"  'Tis  a  dull  morning,  Mistress,"  said  the  clerk, 
in  oblique  apology,  removing  his  cap.  "  Robin, 
set  the  stool  for  the  ladv  —  help  me  down  with  yon 
bale  of  sammets." 

"  i>iit    I   am   minded   to   see   the  woolens   first," 


truly,;  and  'tis  Master  Helpes'  chosen 
color,"  replied  the  Dame,  more  loudly  than  was 
needful. 


150  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TF.WKKSBURY. 

"  As  good  as  Leicester  sheep  e'er  bore  !  'Tis 
a  pleasure,  Madam,  by  your  leave,  to  serve  a 
lady  who  can  judge  of  such  things.  May  I  cut 
off  a  score  or  so  of  ells?  And  another  piece  of 
this  blue  ?  'Tis  a  well  fancied  color,  and  will  ne'er 
change.  And  now  wilt  look  on  some  silks?  I 
would  Master  Sherer  were  here  to  show  them,  but 
he  hath  gone  up  to  London.  Here  is  a  right 
India,  Madam,  was  brought  overland  to  Venice  by 
caravan  in  the  good  old  way,  as  I  can  assure  thee 

—  these  long  sea-voy'ges  are  ill  for  the  gloss." 
Dorothy  purchased  a  portion  of  the  Liuded  silk, 

saw  it  put  up  with  the  woolens,  and  then,  taking 
out  her  money,  asked  for  the  reckoning. 

"Is  there  naught  else,  Madam?"  inquired  the 
dealer.  "  I  humbly  trust  thou'lt  honor  our  poor 
shop  again ;  none  in  the  town  can  serve  thee 
better.  Nay,  there  is  no  haste  —  thy  name  on  our 
books  were  worth  more  than  thy  gold  in  our  till  — 
but  as  thou  wilt.  Robin,  knave,  art  loitering 
there  ?  Take  up  the  parcel,  bear  it  after  the  lady 

—  nay,  good  Dame  Hinckley,  put  no  hand  to  it  — 
we    know    what    becomes    a   customer  of  quality. 
And,  Madam,"   pursuing  Dorothy  from  the  shop, 
"  I  hope  thou  wilt  remember  us  against  the  winter 
comes       we  have  store  of  miniver  and  sable  would 
please  the   Queen  herself  — my   service   to   your 
ladyship." 

Robin  carried  the  parcel  to  Keech  Alley  corner, 
where  he  was  dismissed  with  a  small  gratuity,  and 
the  Dame  took  the  goods. 

"Thou  seest,  nurse,"  said  Dorothy,  when  they 
had  ascended  the  stair,  "  we  must  buy  but  few  more 
braveries,  else  this  room  will  scantly  hold  them." 

"True  enow,"  said  the  other,  "without  thou 
takest  the  next  garret?" 


THK    1UII.IFF    <>i<     TKWKI.SBURV.  151 

But  this  Dorothy  decidedly  negatived.  "  And 
further,  nurse,"  she  continued,  "  thou  must  not 
boast  thus.  I  honor  and  love  my  uncle,  and  for 
Master  Helpes,  'tis  enow  to  say  I  am  to  wed  him; 
but  be  not  so  free  of  their  names  to  strangers." 

Dame  Hinckley  promised,  and  to  do  her  justice, 
endeavored  to  keep  her  promise  :  yet  could  not 
refrain  from  winks  and  nods  and  hints,  which, 
together  with  Sir  Thomas'  frequent  visits,  caused 
a  marvellous  change  in  the  neighbors'  conduct. 
Those  who  had  hitherto  treated  Dorothy  with  the 
scantest  civility,  now  made  her  the  recipient  of  so 
many  ducks  and  bobs  whenever  she  went  forth  as 
quite  bewildered  her.  Though  wonted  to  a 
measure  of  such  homage  at  Charlecote,  the 
amount  now  lavished  on  her  reminded  her  of  her 
aunt's  bottle  of  hartshorn  waters  —  pleasant  and 
refreshing  at  a  distance,  but  overpowering  when 
brought  too  near. 

During  the  hot  weather  Sir  Thomas  rode  over 
once  a  week,  and  rapidly  fell  back  into  his  old 
playful  ways  with  his  niece.  Dorothy  wondered 
somewhat  that,  coming  so  frequently  as  he  did,  he 
should  not  fetch  some  of  her  own  belongings  from 
Charlecote,  and  once  hinted  as  much  :  but  as  he 
only  produced  a  small  parcel  of  handkerchiefs  and 
ribbons  at  his  next  visit,  saying  hastily  "  it  was  all 
he  could  lay  hands  on,"  she  did  not  refer  to  the 
subject  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set, 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din.'' 

—  COLKRIDCE. 

THE  Invincible  Armada,  though  not  threatening 
an  inland  town  like  Tewkesbury  as  immediately  as 
the  southern  and  eastern  coast,  was  nevertheless  a 
menace  to  all  England,  and  many  were  the  mili 
tary  preparations  throughout  the  summer  of  1588. 
William  Helpes  wr.s  continually  out  with  the  train 
bands,  and  much  of  Sir  Thomas'  time  was  spent 
in  organizing  and  drilling  his  dependents.  By  the 
middle  of  August,  however,  the  scattered  remnants 
of  the  Spanish  fleet  were  scudding  over  the 
German  ocean,  and  Lady  Lucy's  health  having 
somewhat  improved,  she  w:;s  brought  over  to 
.  Tewkesbury  near  the  end  of  the  month. 

Sir  Thomas,  having  seen  her  safely  at  rest  in  the 
lodgings  he  had  taken  of  Master  Huggeson,  on 
High  Street,  in  which  they  proposed  to  remain 
until  the  wedding,  came  round  to  acquaint  Dorothy 
that  her  aunt  had  borne  the  journey  but  ill,  and 
could  not  see  her  until  the  morrow. 

On  the  morrow  therefore,  guided  by  her  uncle, 
Dorothy  went  to  Master  Huggeson's  house,  Sir 
Thomas  beguiling  the  way  with  many  jokes  and 
witticisms  on  coming  events,  and  only  lowering  his 
voice  and  endeavoring  to  walk  softly  when  fairly 
over  the  threshold. 

He  led  Dorothy  up  to  her  aunt's  room,  opened 
the  door  and  turned  away.  Lady  Lucy  looked 


THE     11AII.1FK    OK    TKYVKKSIirkY. 


153 


much  older  and  paler.  She  sat  in  a  cushioned 
chair,  and  1  )orothy  scarcely  knew  her  until  she 
smiled  and  uttered  a  low  greeting. 

Then  the  girl,  catching  her  aunt's  hand,  fell 
weeping  on  her  knees. 

"Rise  up,  Dorothy/'  said  the  invalid.  Her 
niece  obeyed,  and  Lady  T.ucy  locked  anxiously  but 
silently  at  her.  Dorothy  divined  her  wishes,  and 
said  humbly,  "  I  crave  thy  pardon,  aunt,  for  leav 
ing  thy  house  as  I  did." 

"  'Tis  well.  I  do  not  deny  thou  hadst  some  ex 
cuse  :  but  a  fault  must  not  be  o'erslidden.  And 
now  tell  me  of  thyself  and  thy  husband  that  is  to 
be." 

Dorothy  uttered  a  glowing  eulogy  on  William 
Helpes  and  her  own  great  happiness. 

"  Ah,  a  young  heart  goes  far,"  sighed  the  aunt. 
"  I  might  hear  thee  laugh  and  jest  with  thy  uncle 
beneath  the  window,  as  all  this  had  never  been  : 
but  he  is  a  wise  good  man,.and  it  ill  becometh  me 
to  cavil  at  his  words  or  deeds." 

Dorothy  remained  a  few  minutes  longer,  and 
then,  fearing  to  weary  her  aunt,  departed.  Sir 
Thomas  waited  without. 

"What  dost  think  of  her?"  was  his  eager  query. 

"She  hath  fallen  away,  and  seems  but  frail." 

"Thou  knowest  naught  i'  the  world  o 't,  wench," 
was  the  brusque  reply.  "  I  tell  thee  she's  far 
stronger  than  hist  May.  An  she  hath  gained  so 
much  in  three  months,  she'll  double  it  in  six. 
And  had  she  a  good  word  for  thy  Will  ?  Ah,  his 
poaching  sticks  in  her  throat.  I  ha'  told  her  it  did 
him  no  shame  to  stand  at  the  bar  for  once,  but  — 
but —  " 

"  He  stood  not  there  alone  neither,  uncle," 
added  the  girl. 


154 


THE    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESBURY. 


"Speak  not  of  them,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  testily. 
"  I  name  no  names  —  they  may  come  and  go  — 
they  may  get  gold  and  land  —  it  may  not  skill  to 
rake  up  aught  against  them  —  but  there's  a  vast 
betterment  betwixt  Will  Helpes  and  them,  the 
rogues  !  Canst  not  see  it,  Doll?  Ah,  well,  there 
be  things  past  women's  minds." 

Dorothy  was  with  her  aunt  each  day,  deep  in 
the  mysteries  of  textile  fabrics,  and  poor  Dame 
Hinckley  was  made  to  feel  some  of  the  drawbacks 


of  greatness.  Lady  Lucy  had  brought  down  her 
own  tiring  maid  to  assist  in  the  toilette,  and  this 
eminent  personage  was  as  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to 
the  worthy  Dame. 

"I  cannot  abide  her,"  she  said  one  day,  in  a 
petulant  outburst.  "If  I  do  but  speak  a  word,  she 
looks  on  the  hair  o'  my  head,  and  says  '  'Tis  done 
otherways  wi'  us,'  or  'That's  all  gone  by,  good 
woman,'  and  I,  that  ne'er  feared  woman  yet,  stand 
staring,  an'  no  word  to  say  —  but  what  an  owd 
fool  I  be,  mumping  an'  grumblin'  for  a  straw,  when 
my  dear  is  so  happy." 


THK    IUII.IFF    OF    TKWKKSI'.UKY.  155 

The  wedding  presents  were  fe\v  but  valuable. 
A  large  silver  bowl  from  Sir  Thomas,  some  fine  old 
lace  from  his  lady  —  a  beautiful  fan  from  the 
younger  Lucy  and  his  wife  —  these  nearly  com 
pleted  the  list.  l!ut  the  one  which  gave  Will 
Helpes  most  pleasure  came  from  his  old  comrade 
of  the  greenwood. 

"  Look  on  this,  Dorothy,"  said  he  one  evening, 
taking  out  a  small  parcel.  "  See  what  Will  hath 
sent  thee.'' 

It  was  a  little  scent-bottle  of  crystal  and  gold, 
shaped  like  a  swan,  and  filled  with  attar  of  roses. 

"  'Twill  sweeten  our  house,  dear,  long  as  we 
live,"  said  he. 

About  this  time  Dorothy  received  an  invitation 
from  William  Helpes'  aunt  (his  only  relative  in 
Tewkesbury)  to  dine  with  her  on  the  eleventh  of 
September  —  the  eve  of  the  wedding  day.  Both 
from  the  inconvenience  of  the  date,  and  also  from 
the  fact  that  Dame  Wotton  had  never  taken  the 
smallest  notice  of  her  hitherto,  Dorothy  had  no 
mind  to  accept  ;  but  finding  that  William  was  de 
sirous  she  should  go,  and  Sir  Thomas,  to  whom  she 
mentioned  the  invitation,  seeming  strangely  eager 
it  should  be  fallen  in  with,  she  concluded  to  do  so. 

"  'Tis  just  r.s  well,"  said  Dame  Hincklcy.  "  'T 
garret  irust  be  scarped  and  swept,  an'  I'll  In'  i:i  a 
wench  to  do  't,  an'  all  will  be  fair  when  t'nou  com- 
est  home  again.'' 

Accordingly  Dorothy  set  forth  eaily  ia  the 
mornir.g  fcr  the  church  with  Dame  Hinckley,  and 
having  w.ited  there  until  the  usual  round  of  duties 
was  performed,  bent  her  steps  toward  the  house  of 
Wotton. 

Her  nurse  was  anxious  they  should  not  go 
through  their  own  alley,  but  as  she  could  not  prove 
11 


156  THE     KA1LIFF    OK    TFAVKESBURY. 

another  course  to  be  shorter  or  better,  Dorothy 
kept  on  her  way.  A  gaping  crowd  about  the 
vicinity  was  nothing  remarkable  of  late  ;  but  a 
dray  load  of  deals  stood  before  the  door,  and  from 
the  open  windows  came  not  only  the  clash  of 
broom  and  mop,  and  the  shrilling  of  female  voices, 
but  the  sound  of  hammer  and  saw,  and  the  deeper 
notes  of  men. 

"What  means  this,  nurse?"  exclaimed  Dorothy 
to  her  companion,  whose  countenance  expressed 
neither  surprise  nor  curiosity.  "  Is  the  house  to 
be  torn  down?  " 

"  Sir  Thomas  doubted  as  t'  stair  were  na'  strong 
enow  for  all  might  tread  it  to-morrow,"  answered 
the  Dame,  pushing  briskly  on.  "  And  he  hath  had 
in  Jem  Joiner  to  underprop  it.''  And  she  would 
say  no  more. 

Dame  Wotton  was  a  well-to-do  widow  of  about 
sixty,  really  attached  to  her  nephew,  but  neither 
liberal  nor  large-hearted  by  nature.  She  had 
pleased  herself  with  the  idea  of  kindly  patronizing 
William's  bride,  but  during  the  last  few  days  had 
heard  so  much  cf  the  greatness  and  glory  of  the 
Lucys,  that,  quite  turned  from  her  original  plan  of 
campaign,  she  now  only  thought  of  surrender. 

She  received  Dorothy  with  the  deepest  cour 
tesies,  ushered  her  into  a  really  very  good  r.ndwell 
furnished  room,  to  which  she  referred  as  a  "  hole," 
and  introduced  an  elderly  friend,  who  greeted  the 
young  lady  in  great  perturbation,  r.nd  scarce 
opened  her  lips  again  during  the  day  but  to  beg 
pardon. 

Cowslip  and  currant  wine  were  immediately  pro 
duced,  and  Dorothy  was  compelled  to  partake  of 
both,  and  then  sit  so  near  a  huge  fire  that  she  was 
almost  smothered.  Dame  Hinckley,  who  had  es- 


'nil-:    li.VIUFF    OF    TEWKESBURY.  157 

saved  to  make  her  way  to  the  kitchen,  was  not 
allowed  to  do  so,  both  the  hostess  and  her  guest 
treating  her  as  fully  their  equal,  and  Dorothy 
greatly  the  superior  of  all. 

Dan'ie  \Votton  had  begun  some  interesting 
tales  of  William's  boyhood,  when  a  substantial 
lunch  was  brought  in;  and  of  this  the  last  traces 
had  scarcely  disappeared,  when  all  were  summoned 
to  a  dinner  sufficient  not  for  four  but  forty.  The 
feast  was  greatly  prolonged,  and  it  was  almost  twi 
light  when  they  were  prepared  to  go.  As  they 
were  muffling,  the  hostess,  excusing  herself,  bustled 
from  the  room,  and  inadvertently  leaving  the  door 
open,  the  following  colloquy  was  heard  : 

"  ['.  )ger  !   Sim  !    be   ye   there?" 

"  Ay,  M issus.'1 

"  I  last  thy  halberd,  Hodge?" 

"  For  sure.'' 

"  Thou  too,  Sim?  " 

'•  Nay,  Missus  ;   un  hath  been  mislaid." 

"  What  to  do?  Ay,  I  ha  't  ;  bind  cook's  cleaver 
on  a  staff  :  she'll  ne'er  know  t'  differ." 

Dame  Wotton  shortly  returned,  and  announced 
"  her  men  would  arm,  and  see  t'  young  lady  safe 
home."  And  by  these  valiant  guards  Dorothy 
and  her  nurse  were  accordingly  followed  to  their 
dwelling. 

I  )arkness  had  fallen  by  the  time  they  reached  it, 
and  1  ia'iie  1  linckley,  lamenting  that  she  had  brought 
no  light,  was  at  what  seemed  the  wholly  unneces 
sary  pains  of  guiding  Dorothy  up  the  stairs  and  to 
her  bed-side.  Entreating  the  girl  to  "get  to  bed 
soon,  she'd  ha'  enow  to  do  o'  the  morrow,"  her 
nurse  groped  out  a  tallow  dip,  and  hacked  long  and 
stoutly  at  flint  and  steel  ere  she  struck  a  light. 
And  scarcely  was  this  accomplished,  when,  drop- 


158  THE    BAILIFF    OF    1EWKESBURY. 

ping  the  candle,  she  stumbled,  and  crushed  it  with 
her  foot. 

"  Bungler  that  I  be  !  "  she  cried.  "  But  ne'er 
mind  dear ;  lay  thee  down  i'  the  dark ;  'twill  bring 
good  luck." 

"But  where  is  the  bed  —  the  pillow?"  asked 
the  girl,  who  was  by  this  time  undressed,  groping 
about.  "  Naught  seems  the  same." 

"Must  I  couch  thee  then,  poppet?"  asked  the 
sturdy  old  woman ;  and  taking  Dorothy  up  in  her 
arms  like  a  baby,  she  laid  her  in  bed,  and  tucked 
the  clothes  around  her.  "  They  maukins  ha',  left 
all  here  huggermugger ;  but  they  know  no  better. 
Good  night,  dear,  an'  bless  thee,"  and  with  a  kiss 
she  moved  to  her  own  corner. 

The  day  had  been  overcast  and  cloudy,  with 
drifts  of  rain  ;  and  both  sleepers  were  lulled  to  rest 
by  the  sound  of  a  heavy  shower  on  the  roof.  The 
dawn,  however,  was  bright  and  beautiful ;  and  as 
the  shadows  slowly  dissipated,  it  seemed  to 
Dorothy  that  she  was  waking  from  a  long  and 
troubled  dream,  again  a  child  at  Charlecote. 
There  she  lay  in  her  own  carved  bedstead,  an 
angel's  head  on  each  post :  it  was  the  same  low 
browed  but  spacious  room  —  there  stood  her 
painted  and  gilded  chest,  the  lid  just  open  —  her 
lute  leaning  against  it  —  the  walls  tapestried  with 
the  siege  of  Troy,  studied  by  her  a  thousand 
times  —  the  very  gowns  she  thought  she  had  left 
forever,  hanging  on  their  pegs. 

She  started  up  in  bed.  A  door  was  opened,  and 
Dame  Hinckley,  wearing  a  fine  new  gown  and 
kerchief,  came  smiling  in. 

"  Good-morrow,  Mistress  Lucy.  Is  't  not  a 
brave  surprise?  " 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  cried  Dorothy.  "  Who  hath 
taken  me  back  ?  " 


THK     15AII.IKK    OF    TKWK.F.SKURY.  159 

"None-  none,  dear,"  soothingly.  "  But  haste 
and  busk  thyself.  There  are  some  without  fain  to 
see  thee." 

A  well-known  jolly  voice  was  now  heard  below 
singing  "  The  hunt  is  up." 

Dorothy  hurried  on  some  clothes,  and  then 
opened  the  casement.  In  the  lane  beneath  stood 
her  uncle,  as  much  at  home  as  in  his  own  hall- 
yard. 

"  How  fares  it,  niece?"  he  cried.  "Thou 
wouULt  not  come  to  Charlecote  to  be  wedded,  so 
we  have  brought  Charlecote  to  thee." 

And  the  good  knight,  delighted  with  his  own 
conceit,  shouted  with  laughter,  stamping  up  and 
down. 

Dorothy  now  perceived  that  two  barriers  had 
been  erected  across  the  alley,  enclosing  a  space 
before  their  door  some  fifty  feet  long,  which  was 
strewn  with  fresh  rushes.  (Greeting  her  uncle 
kindly,  and  saying  she  would  soon  be  down,  she 
proceeded  with  her  array,  glancing  around  the 
transformed  room  meanwhile. 

As  Dame  Hinckley  explained,  Sir  Thomas  had 
hired  the  two  adjoining  garrets  from  their  occu 
pants,  had  thrown  all  three  into  one  by  the  removal 
of  the  bo'ird  partitions  (lath  and  plaster  n')t  being 
then  in  use  for  interior  walls),  and  all  defects  be 
ing  covered  by  the  tapestry,  the  furniture  was  set 
in  place. 

Hastening  down  to  her  uncle,  Dorothy  received 
his  blessing,  and  proceeded  to  thank  him  for  his 
thought  of  her,  saying,  however,  that  it  was  a  great 
toil  to  bring  so  many  things  over  but  for  one  day. 

"  Not  a  thread  goes  b:ick,  Doll,"  was  his  answer. 
"  All  shall  be  thine.  The  room  hath  stood  ever 
since  as  thou  didst  leave  it,  but  this  spring  our 


i6o 


THK    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 


dames  —  Tom's  and  mine  —  were  fain  to  make  it 
a  nursery,  and  spoke  of  new  furnishing,  and  where 
the  old  should  go.  '  By  your  leave,  my  ladies 
Lucy,'  quoth  I,  '  plenish  it  anew  as  ye  will,  but  my 
niece  shall  have  ;.ll  her  own.'  And  so  it  stands. 

Look  now,  here  comes 
thy  aunt  :  I  doubt  if  she 
wins  to  the  church  this 
day." 

Lady  Lucy  now  ap 
peared,  supported  on 
either  side  by  the  tiring- 
maid  and  a  damsel 
bearing  a  basket  of  mil 
linery.  She  was  still 
feeble,  but  declared  she 
would  g)  in  with  her 
niece  and  see  her 
dressed,  whether  or  no 
she  could  see  her  mar 
ried. 

"I  have  often  thought 
on  thy  wedding,  Doro 
thy,"  said  she.  "  'Tis 
not  wholly  what  I  had 
in  mind,  but  I  trust  all 
will  be  well.  Thy  uncle 
hath  tol  1  me  of  his  fan 
cy  touching  the  room  — 
he  is  merry  r.s  a  child 
upon  it  —  thou  knowest 

he  loves  a  jest.     And  think  not  but  thou  art  wel 
come  to  r.ll  stands  there  —  we  both  love  thee  well 
—  thou  wast  as  our  daughter  many  a  year." 

The  bride-elect,  her  aunt,  and  the   maids,  now 
took    their    way  to    the   renovated  garret,  where, 


1'HK     BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURV.  l6l 

joined  by  Dame  Hinckley,  they  entered  on  the 
mysteries  of  the  toilette,  whither  we  shall  not  pre 
sume  to  follow.  Suffice  it  to  say,  by  ten  of  the 
clock  Dorothy  Lucy  issued  from  her  chamber,  as 
fair  and  well-apparelled  a  bride  as  Tewkesbury  had 
ever  seen. 

Sir  Thomas  awaited  them  below,  conversing  with 
one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  neighborhood  whom 
he  had  known  slightly  for  many  years,  and  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  much  improved  recently. 
This  personage  gave  his  arm  to  Lady  Lucy, 
Dorothy  took  her  uncle's,  and,  preceded  and 
followed  by  a  do/.en  stout  serving-men,  they  took 
their  way  to  the  church  ;  the  maids  and  Dame 
Hinckley  brought  up  the  rear,  the  latter  accom 
panied  by  her  chosen  friends,  a  society  which  had 
marvellously  thriven  and  increased  of  late. 

William  Helpes  met  them  at  the  church  door, 
where  the  first  part  of  the  service  was  read  by  the 
curate.  The  banns  had  been  duly  published, 
during  the  last  three  weeks,  and  no  man  stood 
forth  to  state  cause  of  impediment.  The  company 
then  proceeded  to  the  altar,  where  Sir  Thomas 
gave  the  bride  away,  and  the  nuptials  were  con 
cluded. 

The  registry  book  was  then  had  down,  and  the 
parties  prepared  to  sign  their  names.  Writing  was 
then  such  a  rare  accomplishment  among  females, 
even  of  the  better  class,  that  the  bride's  doing  so 
was  looked  on  with  some  admiration.  She  had 
almost  finished  tracing  her  signature1,  when  an  ex 
clamation  from  her  uncle  stopped  her. 

"  How's  this,  Doll?"  he  cried.  "I  prided  my 
self  on  thy  fair  writing,  and  canst  only  make  thy 
mark  /  " 

And    indeed    the     unfinished     signature     stood 


1 6  2  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"Dorothy  Mark — ."  It  was  plain  that  in  that 
moment  of  excitement  she  had  begun  her  mother's 
name  of  Markham,  by  which  she  had  been  so  long 
known  in  Tewkesbury.  Ashamed  of  her  error, 
she  hastily  erased  the  unfinished  word,  and  wrote 
above  it  "  Lucy,"  thereby  leaving  such  a  blotted 
sign-manual  that  those  of  her  descendants  who 
have  scanned  the  register  for  that  year  have  great 
difficulty  in  coming  at  her  real  title. 

The  wedding  party  now  issued  from  the  door 
amid  the  pealing  of  bells,  the  music  and  song  of 
minstrels,  the  cheers  of  friends,  and  the  laughter 
and  whooping  of  the  rabble.  Palfreys  were  in 
waiting  at  the  door,  and  each  cavalier  taking  his 
lady  on  a  pillion  behind  him,  they  rode  toward 
William  Helpes'  home. 

The  day  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  bright  and 
clear,  the  sky  glittering  from  recent  storm,  and  the 
air  tempered  to  that  rare  perfection  when  it  is  im 
possible  to  feel  either  heat  or  chill. 

As  Dorothy  sat  behind  her  stalwart  and  devoted 
husband,  loved,  honored  and  envied  by  all  who 
saw  her,  she  thought  cf  the  last  time  she  had 
ridden  a  horse,  when  two  years  before,  a  poor, 
half-dead  fugitive,  she  had  been  carried  through 
Tewkesbury  streets. 

The  procession,  gathering  like  a  snowball  at 
every  corner  it  turned,  at  length  reached  the 
house,  and  the  wedded  pair  rode  up  to  the  door, 
between  a  double  row  of  Helpes'  servants  and 
business  dependents,  each  clad  in  a  smart  new 
coat  or  cloak,  and  all  bowing,  ducking  and  utter 
ing  their  good  wishes. 

William  Helpes  dismounted,  lifted  his  wife  from 
the  pillion  and  over  the  threshold,  ere  her  foot 
touched  the  ground  ;  and  the  housekeeper,  who 


>!••    TKWKKSBURY.  163 

stood  just  \vithin  the   door,  handed   over  her  keys 
with  a  dee])  courtesy. 

The  table  (or  rather  three  tallies,  placed  end  to 
end)  stood  ready,  covered  by  fair  linen  cloths, 
with  long,  knotted  fringe's,  and  bearing  every  kind 
of  solid  and  liquid  refreshment  then  known  in  a 
substantial  citi/en's  household.  A  fine  voice  sang 
from  an  inner  room  an  epithalamium  as  follows, 
while  various  musical  instruments  sent  forth  their 
notes  at  intervals  : 

•'  Her;'  i  nds  a'.l  art,  all  artificers  end, 
Come  ye,  look  through  our  little  golden  loop; 
Here  is  the  best  \\hieh  hvaven  to  earth  did  send, 
Here  is  the  bond  of  love,  and  joy,  and  hope. 
The  soldier's  laurel,  poet's  1  ay,  down  fling. 
Take  up  this  tiny  wreath  — the  marriage  ring. 

The  double  bow,  \\hieh  heralds  sunny  weather. 

The  shining  halo  of  the  rising  dav, 

Th'  equator  smooth,  which  binds  the  world  together, 

The  chapiet  lair,  which  rounds  the  brow  ol  May. 

A  diadem  by  meanest  mortals  owned, 

Who  rightlv  \\ears  thee  sits  a  king  enthroned. 

Let  but  a  slender  finger  swift  pass  thro'  thee, 
And  all  delight  shall  follow  in  its  train: 
Hold  fast  by  this,  and  woe  may  not  undo  thee, 
That  brave  ring-armor  blunts  the  edge  of  pain. 
Gentles,  but  hearken  to  the  minstrel's  voice, 
And  ye  shall  ne'er  repent,  but  ave  reioice.'' 

The  bride  and  groom  sat  in  a  large  double  chair 
at  the  board  head,  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  I.ucy  on 
either  side,  and  the  other  guests  downward  in  order 
of  rank.  The  good  justice  was  in  his  element, 
laughing,  jesting,  matching  tales,  and  calling 
healths,  and  only  I.ady  Lucy's  pale  and  weary 
looks  at  length  ended  the  feast.  The  wedded  pair 
stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  while  the  huge 
bride  cake  was  broken  above  their  heads  bv  two 


164  THK    ];A|[.IH     OF    TKAVK.KSKURV. 

friends,  and  soon  after  the  company  began  to 
disperse. 

As  Sir  Thomas  got  to  horse  in  the  evening 
light,  he  saw  several  men  approaching  with  ladders 
large  and  small. 

"What  be  these,  friend?"  he  asked  of  a  by 
stander. 

"  'Tis  the  custom  here,  your  honor,"  replied  the 
man,  touching  his  cap.  "  \Ve  do  allays  prop  up 
t'  doors  an'  windows  of  a  new  married  man  wi' 
ladders  on  's  wedding  night." 


CHAITMR  XXII. 

"  lie  keptc  his  pacient  a  ful  f^rct  del 
In  houres  hy  his  ma^ik  nature!. 
( )f  his  di;'tj  mesuralile  was  he, 
For  it  was  i-f  1:0  superfluitf, 
l!ut  if  jjret  imrisching  and  digestible. 
His  studio  uas  hut  litcl  oa  the  ISihle." 

—  <  'lIAl'CKR. 

MT.KYFX  years  had  passed  since  the  events  of  our 
last  chapter.  The  sixteenth  century  was  near  its 
close.  Ouecn  Mlizabeth  still  sat  on  the  throne, 
but  her  light  grew  dim,  and  her  courtiers  expected 
the  Northern  sunrise.  The  solid  men  cf  London 
were  planning  the  Mast  Jndi:i  Company,  next  year 
to  receive  its  charter,  and  the  first  successful 
American  colonist  was  as  yet  a  slave  in  the  wilds 
of  the  ( 'aucasus. 

Mew  changes  had  passed  upon  Tewkesbury.  A 
long,  cold  winter  was  just  relaxing  its  hold,  the 
festal  season  between  Christmas  and  Shrove-Tues- 
day  was  over,  ;.nd  all  the  town  kept  Lent.  The 
March  winds  roared  r."d  swept  through  the 
streets,  threatening  thatch  and  tiles,  rapidly  coin 
ing  the  country's  ransom,  and  driving  all  prudent 
citizens  early  to  their  homes. 

A  glance  into  the  household  of  William  Helpes 
showed  a  great  fire  burning  on  the  hearth  of  the 
principal  room.  On  one  side  sat  Dorothy  smiling 
at  Dame  Hinckley,  who,  grey  a1  d  bent,  held  in  her 
arms  a  seven-month-old  infant —  William  Helpes' 
first-born  son.  The  mother  looked  with  joy  on  the 
child  for  whom  she  had  almost  ceased  to  hope,  but 


l66  THF.     liAII.IFK     01      'I  FAVKKSnURY. 

her  face  clouded  whenever  she  turned  to  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  room,  where  her  husband  lay 
sick  upon  the  couch.  A  ivcet^  or  heavy  feverish 
cold,  taken  some  weeks  before,  hr.d  not  passed  off 
as  rapidly  as  usual,  and  r.t  length,  much  against 
Helpes'  wishes,  medical  assistance  had  been  in 
voked.  Since  that  time,  however,  the  patient  had 
grown  steadily  worse,  and  Dorothy  was  beginning 
to  fear  that  he  might  not  recover.  She  had  not 
yet  induced  him  to  "be  a  bedral  by  day"  as  he 
expressed  it,  but,  his  doublet  and  shoes  removed, 
to  lie  on  the  cushioned  settle,  wrapped  in  a 
cloak. 

"How  dost  feel  now,  husband  ?"  asked  Dor 
othy,  repeating  the  hourly  question.  "  Hast  any 
pain?  " 

"  Nay,  none  —  only  this  pestilent  weakness," 
was  the  impatient  answer.  "  I  was  sorely  racked 
yestreen,  but  now  I  want  naught  but  strength. 
Meseems  I  have  my  ailing  under  now.  I'll  not 
give  in  to  't —  I  7i'i/l  fling  it  off  !  " 

Springing  up,  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  room, 
and  seizing  the  heavy  poker,  bent  it  against  his 
knee  :  but  was  presently  obliged  to  lie  down  again, 
weak  and  gasping. 

"  Nay,  thou'lt  kill  thyself,"  remonstrated  his 
wife.  "Lie  still  until  thy  dinner,  that  may  hearten 
thee." 

"  An  I  could  eat  a  bit  of  good  flesh  meat,  it 
might  be  so,"  he  answered.  "  But  this  same 
watery  fish  goes  fair  again  me." 

"  Sir  Richard  has  seen  thee,  and  knows  how  ill 
thou  art,"  said  Dorothy  thoughtfully.  "  Surely  he 
would  grant  thee  a  dispensation." 

"  Tush,  Doll,  think  not  o'  't  :  I  trust  to  keep 
the  church's  rules  :  and  I  should  pass,  that  have  a 


<!K    TKWKESBURY.  ID  7 

dish  of  carp  to  my  own  share  each   day,  while   the 
rest  of  ye  feed  on  stock-fish  and  parsnips." 

"  But  thou  sayest  the  pain  is  worst  of  after 
noons  ?  " 

"  Sooth,  'tis  so  ;  but  Master  leech  tells  me  that 
hath  naught  to  do  wi'  't." 

"  I  would  our  own  good  Doctor  Hill  were  well 
enow  t;>  come  ;  I  like  rot  this  helper  he  hath 
gotten." 

"But  thou  knowest  Master  Hill  hath  seen  me 
once,  and  said  his  assistant  had  great  skill.  And 
here  he  comes,  ever  the  same,  an  hour  ere  noon." 

Stepping  to  the  door,  1  )orothy  admitted  a  slight, 
lean,  stooping  man,  clad  in  bLck,  with  a  cloak  and 
hood  of  the  same,  tl.is  Lst  ;.n  article  of  costume 
not  altogether  discarded  by  men  at  that  time,  and 
which  L-ft  little  of  the  head  visible  but  eyes,  nose 
and  mouth. 

"And  how  i.;  z?  patients?"  he  asked  with  a 
foreign  accent.  "Surely  an  improvements  is  now 
pass  upon  him  ?  " 

"Alas,  no,"  said  Dorothy.  "Yesternight  was 
the  worst  lie  hath  yet  seen." 

"/'at  is  bad — very  b.ul.  But  Rome  w..s  not 
built  in  a  day—-  we  must  give  /.e  curatives  time  to 
work."  And  after  feeling  the  sick  man's  pulse,  he 
launched  into  a  long  medical  disquisition,  plenti 
fully  garnished  wi;h  French  and  Latin  words 
which  much  more  learned  persons  than  his  hearers 
might  have  f  >und  difficulty  in  understanding.  At 
length,  concluding  his  harangue,  he  administered 
a  bolus,  and  then  asked  if  the  patient's  dinner  were 
ready. 

"  Presently,  Sir,''  answered  Dame  Helpes,  "the 
fish  are  in  the  pan." 

"  1  must  see  it  mvself  —  /.e  seasonings  must   be 


l68  THK    JIAII.IFF    OK    TF.WKKS1U 'KV. 

aright,  or,  look  you,  ze  \vliwle  balancings  is 
destroy." 

A  serving  maid  soon  brought  the  smoking  dish 
of  carp  to  the  door.  The  leech  smelt  and  tasted 
the  mess,  and  then,  pronouncing  it  not  sufficiently 
seasoned,  asked  for  the  salt  cellar,  and  scattered  a 
little  more  over  the  dish. 

"  It  shall  do  now,"  said  he,  '•'  r.ll  shall  be  as  we 
would  have  it."  And  he  took  his  leave. 

Helpes,  declaring  he  had  no  stomach  to  the  fish, 
but  the  leech's  bidding  must,  he  supposed,  be  done, 
partook  of  a  share,  and  was  soon  after  attacked  by 
severer  p  :in  than  ever,  attended  by  feverish  delir 
ium.  A  wretched  restless  night  kept  his  wife  in 
constant  attendance  upon  him,  and  it  wa .;  almost 
daybreak  when  he  finally  fell  asleep. 

Dorothy's  resolution  was  now  taken.  She 
snatched  a  few  minutes' rest,  and  then  donning  her 
cloak  and  muffler,  came  forth  from  the  chamber, 
bearing  with  her  the  little  William — a  quiet  and 
patient  child,  who  required  but  a  small  amount  of 
attention.  Dame  Hinckley  waited  without  the 
door. 

"  Eh  !  "  said  she  taking  the  baby,  '•  but  t' 
master's  bad.  I  might  hear  him  groan  whene'r  I 
past.  He  cannc.t  bear  many  such  nights." 

"  He  shr.ll  not,"  said  Dorothy,  firmly.  "  T  have 
that  in  mind  shall  cure  him.  Keep  the  child  till 
I  return,  let  none  disturb  Mnstcr  Helpes." 

And  Liking  a  basket,  and  calling  one  cf  the 
serving  lads  to  follow,  she  left  the  house.  In 
about  two  hours  she  reentered,  and  sending  the 
boy  down  to  the  kitchen,  crept  into  her  husband's 
room,  where  she  sat  watching  hi.s  slumber  until  he 
was  roused  by  the  physician's  knock. 

"  How  dost  thou,  William?"  said  she,  lovingly 
bending  over  him. 


THK     liAII.II'r     ():•'    TKWK.F.SIU;RY.  169 

"  As  ever,"  he  answered  feebly.  "The  pain  is 
gone,  but  1  am  weaker  still.  Js  that  the  leech?  " 

"  Ay.     He  must  come  up  to  thee,  methinks." 

Helpes  grimaced  but  said  nothing.  The  physi 
cian  entered  the  room. 

"  So  he  has  gone  to  hees  bed  ?  Ah!  it  is  ze 
act  of  ze  wise  man.  Now  all  shall  soon  be  well." 

"  Me  was  far  worse,  last  night,  sir,"  said  Do 
rothy,  looking  steadily  at  the  leech.  "  Art  sure 
thy  treatment  is  for  the  best?  " 

"  Ze  best  fitted  to  ze  end,  Matam,"  in  some 
heat.  "  We  must  have  patience,  as  I  did  say. 
Vet  a  little  time,  and  according  to  Hippocrat  - 
And  he  went  off  into  another  discourse,  chiefly  in 
dog  Latin.  This  ended,  he  administered  his 
bolus,  again  examined  and  seasoned  the  dish  of 
carp,  and  departed. 

"  And  yonder  is  my  dinner ?"  said  Ilelpes,  sit 
ting  ii])  in  bed,  and  looking  on  the  victual  with  no 
eager  tye.  "  I  care  not  if  I  never  see  carp  again.'1 

"  Thou  needst  not,"  said  his  wife,  withdrawing 
her  ga/e  from  the  leech's  retreating  form,  and  ris 
ing  from  the  window.  "  Set  the  fish  by,  Xan,  and 
mind  ye,  cover  it  with  care.  I  will  serve  Master 
Helpcs  myself."  And  going  down  to  the  kitchen, 
she  returned  with  a  fine  joint  of  roast  beef. 

"How's  this,  Dame?"  said  Ilelpes  sternly, 
averting  his  face  from  the  too  attractive  sight. 
"Hast  forgotten  the  season?" 

"Not  so;    here  is  thy  grace  before  meat." 

Her  husband  toc,k  the  paper  she  offered,  and 
unfolding  it  read  as  follows  : 

"Lent,  1599.  —  I  this  day  graunted  a  license 
unto  William  Helpes,  he  being  verie  sicke,  to  eat 
fleshe,  the  said  license  to  endure  no  longer  than 
during  the  tyme  of  his  sickenes. 

"  Ri  :   Curteis,  Curate  of  Tewkesburie." 


170  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"  I  was  afoot  early  to  see  Sir  Richard,"  explained 
Dorothy.  "  He  gave  me  the  dispensation  with  few 
words,  and  lie  hath  copied  it  into  the  register 
book.  Fish  thou  shalt  eat  no  more.  I  know  not 
why,  but  am  well  convinced  'tis  little  better  than 
poison  to  thee.  Now  mayst  fall  to  with  a  clear 
conscience." 

William  made  an  excellent  dinner  for  a  sick 
man,  and  afterward  took  some  repose,  while 
Dorothy  nursed  her  child,  who,  as  she  observed, 
had  reason  to  be  jealous  of  his  father.  She  then 
attended  carefully  to  the  disposal  of  the  dish  of 
carp.  Helpes  insisted  on  coming  down  for  a  short 
time  before  dark,  saying  "  he  had  ne'er  lain  by  the 
whole  day  since  he  could  mind,"  but  was  soon 
persuaded  by  his  helpmeet  to  return.  There  was 
no  recurrence  of  pain,  however,  and  he  passed  an 
excellent  night.  The  next  morning  he  declared 
himself  much  improved  in  body,  but  something 
troubled  in  mind. 

"  I  had  clean  forgot,  Doll,  when  thou  gavest  me 
the  curate's  license,  I  should  have  one  from  the 
leech  as  well.  Sure,  he  will  take  it  amiss,  and 
small  blame  to  him." 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  Methinks  I  can  set 
matters  so  before  him  that  thou  shalt  hear  no 
word  of  complaint." 

Promptly  at  eleven  the  medico  appeared. 
"How  shall  ze  patient  be,  Matam?  "  he  asked  of 
Dame  Helpes,  who  having  opened  the  upper  half 
of  the  door,  leaned  over  it,  with  no  apparent  in 
tention  of  doing  more. 

"He  is  better,  sir;  far  better,"  answered  Dor 
othy,  in  a  strangely  high  and  sharp  voice. 

"  Zat  is  most  well,"  replied  the  man,  real  sur 
prise  and  feigned  satisfaction  blending  in  his 


THE     H.UI.IKF    OF    TFAVKKSHURY. 

tones.     "  Pray    you,    Dame,    let    me    in ;     I 
judge  if  ze  amendment  be  real." 

"  Thy  pardon,  sir,"  said  she,  budging  not  an 
inch.  "'Since  thy  haste  is  so  great,  stand  no 
longer  at  our  poor  door.  My  husband  is  so  far 
improved  he  needs  no  more  of  thy  care." 

"  But,  Matam--" 

"  l''urthermore,  sir,"  she  went  on,  "  being  avisecl 
that  fish  suiteth  not  with  Master  IIel])es'  com 
plaint,  1  have  a  license  from  the  curate  for  him  to 
eat  tlesh  till  he  be  recovered  ;  whereof  he  took  a 
full  meal  yesterday,  and  shall  again  to-noon." 

"This  i.s  an  insult  !  "  shouted  the  leech,  his  ac 
cent  failing  as  his  anger  grew,  "an  insult  to 
myself  and  my  profession.  \\  ilt  try  experiments 
on  thy  husband  thus?  'Tis  no  better  than 
murther  ! " 

"  Have  a  care,  sir,"  said  Dorothy,  frowning  till 
her  eyebrows  met.  "  Murther  is  a  hot  and  heavy 
word,  may  harm  the  user.  As  thou  speak'st  of 
experiments,  it  may  please  thee  to  know  I  gave 
most  part  of  the  last  dish  of  carp  to  a  dog,  which 
now  lieth  dead  in  his  kennel  :  a  small  portion  hath 
been  saved  for  our  good  Doctor  Hill  to  look  into 
when  he  next  cometh  ;  and  until  he  cometh,  no 
other  physician  shall  cross  this  threshold."  She 
drew  back  and  closed  the  doo^. 

The  leech  stood  a  moment  scowling  at  the 
panels,  and  then,  with  a  savage  imprecation, 
turned  away. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  later  that  Dr.  Hill 
made  his  appearance  ;  a  stout,  much  muffled 
figure,  sitting  sideways  on  a.  fat  pony,  at  whose 
bridle  walked  a  serving  lad  :  the  position  explained 
by  the  Doctor's  swathed  and  gouty  foot,  which 
would  enter  no  stirrup  ever  made.  He  painfully 


172  THE    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESBURY. 

dismounted,  and  hobbled  forward  to  meet  Helpes 
and  his  wife,  who  stood  together  at  the  door. 

"  How  doth  our  invalid?  "  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"Hale  and   hearty   again?      1    might    not   come 

sooner —  I  was  bound  and  fettered  with   business 

—  ye    see,"    lifting    his  gouty  member,    "I   have 

the  world  at  my  foot." 

He  took  a  seat,  and  made  some  professional 
inquiries. 

"  Faith,  man,  thou  hast  been  hard  bested,"  said 
he,  "but  I  see  not  that  much  remains  for  me  to 
do.  The  dispensation  was  well  thought  upon. 
And  that  Master  Jean  Dufay,  that  English  rascal 
in  a  French  skin,  I  would  he  stood  here  to  spell 
out  his  knaveries." 

"What  said  he  of  the  matter,  Doctor?" 

"Gone  two  days  since  — o'er  the  water,  I  trow. 
He  came  home  betimes,  and  I  might  hear  him 
rummage  in  the  surgery  a  space,  and  then  go 
forth,  telling  the  lad  he  should  be  late.  None 
have  seen  him  sithence  ;  and  when  I  was  holpen 
to  the  stair-foot  in  the  morn,  I  found  all  in  great 
disarray,  and  a  goodly  purse  gone,  whose  nest,  me- 
thought,  none  knew  on  but  myself.  What  will  ye  ? 
poor  rogues  must  live  —  the  empty  sack  may  not 
stand." 

"Hath  he  been  long  with  thee,  sir?" 

"  Most  part  of  a  year.  He  came  bearing  a 
letter  from  one  of  my  craft  in  France,  and  said  he 
had  been  bred  there,  though  of  English  birth.  He 
understood  his  work,  I'll  say  that  for  him  ;  a 
quicker,  cleverer  fellow  ne'er  handled  pestle.  But 
ye  know  the  old  saw,  'He  who  burnishes  the  bit 
o'  Twelfth-Night,  lets  the  horse  go  hungry  by 
Lady-Day  ' ;  as  we  went  on  I  liked  not  his  ways  — 
I  found  the  French  knot  in  's  tongue  came  loose 


THE     BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESKURY. 


by  times  —  and  but  for  the  gout  laying  me  by  the 
heels,  that  I  might  not  make  shift  without  him,  my 
house  had  seen  his  back  a  month  ago." 

Dcrothy  now  produced  the  remnant  of  the  dish 
of   carp,  and  told  of  its  effect  on  the  dog.     The 
doctor  examined  it  carefully,  sent  for  his  appara 
tus,  applied   one   or  two 
simple    tesis,  and    shook 
his    head. 

"  Husband,"  said  Dor 
othy  in  a  low  voice, 
during  this  process,  "  dost 
know  who  this  Master 
John  I  Hi  fay,  as  the  Doc 
tor  calleth  him,  was? 
None  other  than  Joseph 
Tuff,  my  uncle's  scribe." 

"  Art  sure,  goodwife  ?  " 

"  Verily  ;  I  am.  I 
knew  him  not  until,  as 
Master  1 1  ill  saith,  he 
dropt  his  French.  Then 
I  was  sure  on  't  ;  but  I 
would  not  fray  thee  with 
't,  being  yet  so  weak." 

The  doctor  looked  up 
with  a  pux/.led  face. 

"  There  is  much  amiss 
here,"  said  he,  "  much 
amiss,  but  it  passes  my 
skill  to  say  what  forthright.  Will  Helpes,  thou 
hast  a  marvellous  strong  habit,  or  hadst  lain  beside 
thy  talbot.  I  will  take  this  home,  an'  ye  wish,  ai:d 
look  into  it  more  closely." 

"  Nay,  Doctor,"  said   Helpes,  "let  it  pass.     An' 
he  meant  me  ill,  he  hath  failed,  thank  heaven  and 


174  THE   BAILIFF   OF    TEWKESBURY. 

my  good  wife  ;    if  he  sought  not  to  harm  me,  'twere 
a  hard  charge  to  bring." 

"  Well    said,  Will,"    assented  the  old  physician, 
leaving  ;    "  if  thou  pursuest  not  after  thy  heath,  I 
shall  not  after  my  gold." 

Helpes  continued   steadily  to  improve,  and  by 
Easter  day  was  himself  again. 


CHAPTER    XX I  IT. 


WK  must  now  take  another  stride  forward  of 
some  seven  years,  and  find  a  Stuart  ruling  Great 
Britain,  and  the  present  authorized  version  of  the 
Scriptures  just  issuing  from  the  press.  This  last 
subject  provided  discourse  for  t\vo  respectable 
citizens  who  passed  through  the  streets  of  Tewkes- 
bury  on  a  fur  autumn  morning.  Their  Hat  bon 
nets  and  collarless  shirts,  with  drawing-string  at 
the  neck  —  their  sad-colored  garments,  gold  rings, 
and  portly  forms,  marked  them  as  well-to-do  mer 
chants.  Behind  them  skulked  a  lean,  ragged,  evil- 
looking  man,  apparently  waiting  an  opportunity  to 
slide  in  a  petition  for  alms. 

"  It  may  be  well  to  have  Holy  V\"rit  done  into 
English,"  said  Shen  r  the  mercer,  "but  once 
should  serve.  lietwixt  \Vyclif,  Tyndale,  the  rev 
erend  bishops,  and  now  the  king's  majesty,  how 
shall  a  phin  man  do  ?  " 

"  Sure,  the  King  knoweth  best,''  said  Tanghaft, 
the  cutler.  "  Thou  mind'st  he  is  bespoke  the 
'  British  Solomon  '  ;  and  with  such  aid  as  he  hath, 
none  may  doubt." 

"  I  yiel  1  to  no  man  in  duty  to  the  King  ;  but 
see,  if  his  Bible  differ  from  the  rest,  and  his  be 
right,  theirs  must  needs  be  wrong." 

"Not  so,  neighbor;  look  ye,  it  maybe  but  a 
differ  of  words." 


176  THK    UAII.IFF    OF    TKWKKSUURV. 

"  I  tell  thee,  there  be  just  so  many  words  in 
every  tongue  that  is  spoken  under  heaven  ;  and 
one  should  fit  to  another  like  hand  to  glove.  Else 
how  might  it  ever  be  done  at  all  ?  " 

"  'Tis  suid  ov.r  new  Bailiff  is  a  great  book-man," 
remarked  Tanghaft,  shifting  the  subject. 

"  Ay,  ay.  I  have  seen  him  walk  abroad,  poring 
on  scrolls,  when  'a  should  have  been  at's  business. 
But  he's  a  rare  good  fellow  for  all  that,  is  Will 
Helpes." 

"Thou  sayst  well.  I  think  he  hath  the  good 
word  cf  every  man  of  weight  i'  t'  town  to  back 
him." 

"Ay;  and  none  more  deserving  —  but  how's 
this,  knave?"  cried  Sherer,  turning  sharp  round 
on  the  mendicant,  who  had  closed  in  on  them 
with  eager  looks.  "  Why  dost  dog  us  thus  by  the 
heels  ?  ( )ff  with  thee  !  Or  shalt  try  the  fit  of  oaken 
shoes." 

Grumbling  something  unintelligible,  the  fellow 
slunk  down  an  alley. 

"Dost  know  him?''  asked  the  mercer  of  his 
friend. 

"  Soothly,  nay.  'Tis  an  ill-looking  rogue  :  some 
thing  cf  a  French.  But  town's  full  o'  strangers, 
drawn  in  to  see  the  day's  doing.  Canst  say  who 
be  these  ?  "  indicating  two  men  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way. 

"  Nay,  I  know  'em  not ;  but  they  be  Welsh. 
Dost  mark  their  speech?  'Tis  like  the  cloop  of 
liquor  from  a  bottle-neck." 

"  Canst  understand  them  then  ?  "  asked  Tanghaft. 

"  I  mind  but  one  word  of  Welsh,  and  that's 
'cooroo,'  which  is  beer.  But  let  us  make  on,  or 
we  shall  miss  our  seats  for  the  show."  And  the 
worthy  burgesses  proceeded  up  the  High  Street. 


THF.    RAIT.IFF    Ol     TFAVKKSBURY.  177 

The  two  Welshmen  who  had  caught  their  atten 
tion  belonged  to  a  people  who  were  by  r.o  means 
unfamiliar  objects  in  Tevvkeslv.iY,  lying  ;.s  it  did 
on  the  borders  of  Cambria  ;  but  these  men  were 
apparently  from  thewihkr  pait  of  their  ccr.ntry, 
then  ;,s  little  known  or  travelled  as  th  >  Scotch 
Highlands  a  century  later.  The  taller  and  elder 
of  the  two,  a  man  about  thirty-five,  was  dressed  in 
a  :-hort  yellow  tunic,  his  fei  t  and  legs  protected  by 
sandals  and  loose  cross-gartered  ho*e,  a  large  blue- 
cloak  wrapped  round  his  aim,  and  a.  gold-handled 
dagger  in  his  belt.  The  other's  costume1  was  much 
the  same,  save  that  he  wa.>  b  ire-foot,  and  his 
weapon  had  a  plain  wooden  hilt.  The  heads  of 
both  were  uncovered,  but  the  t  Ider  man's  long 
hair  w;  s  carefully  combed  and  dressed,  while  his 
companion's  was  the  traditional  "  Welsh  fur/e- 
bush."  The  young  man's  bearing,  however,  was 
marked  1  v  the  humblest  deference  toward  his 
superior,  whose  every  thought  lie  seemed  solicitous 
to  anticipate. 

The  British  strangers  continued  their  course 
through  the  town,  more  and  more  slowly  as  the 
crowd  grew  thicker,  till  at  length  they  came  to  a 
stand  ju.-t  below  a  long  overhanging  balcony,  or 
bay,  in  the  High  Street;  the  very  same,  as  it 
chanced,  where  William  Helpes'  wife  and  sons 
had  taken  places  to  view  the  pageant  of  which  he 
was  to  them  the  greatest  part. 

He  was  indeed,  as  his  neighbors  had  said,  a 
general  favorite,  and  the  most  popular  man  who 
had  ever  attained  the  chief  magistracy  of  his 
native  town.  Moreover  the  exploits  of  his  youth 
had  now  receded  far  enough  into  the  past  to  have 
something  of  the  fabulous  about  them,  while  yet 
there  remained  good  store  of  living  witnesses  who 


I  78  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

by  no  means  allowed  them  to  lose  in  the  telling. 
It  was  confidently  asserted  by  many  that  he  had 
walked  an  hundred  miles  in  a  day  —  that  he  had 
flung  a  man  over  a  ten-foot  wall  —  that  he  had 
burst  in  a  heavy  iron  door  with  his  shoulder  —  and 
that  he  had,  single  handed,  slain  five  ruffians,  in 
rescuing  from  their  stronghold  the  noble  lady  who 
was  now  his  wife.  His  reputation,  long  silently 
growing,  and  now  thus  bruited  abroad,  seemed 
likely  soon  to  equal  that  of  his  mythical  country 
man,  the  great  Guy  of  Warwick. 

Thus  buzzing,  humming,  and  clustering  together 
like  bees  when  their  hive  is  touched  by  the  morn 
ing  sun,  the  citizens  gathered  along  the  route  of 
the  procession,  which  led  from  the  gate  by  which 
the  Queen's  envoy  had  formerly  entered  to  the 
town  hall.  And  when  at  length  the  train  came  in 
sight,  pushing  its  way  onward  like  a  long  dried 
torrent  occupying  its  bed,  and  yet  more  when  the 
hero  of  the  day  took  his  place  in  the  line,  the 
murmurs  of  praise  swelled  into  a  roar  of  acclama 
tion  which  might  have  terrified  one  not  aware 
of  its  cause. 

Gallantly  did  the  object  of  their  admiration 
justify  it.  Clad  in  splendid  apparel,  the  insignia 
of  office  borne  before  him,  carrying  his  forty-eight 
years  lightly  as  half  their  number,  his  strong  ath 
letic  figure  and  well  managed  horse  forming  a 
sharp  contrast  to  those  of  the  poor  equestrians  who 
had  preceded  him  in  office,  the  plaudits  of  the 
multitude,  sweeter  than  the  praises  of  the  judicious 
few  in  that  they  bring  no  sense  of  obligation, 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  hundreds  of  shining  faces 
converging  toward  him  like  sun-sparkles  on  the 
heaving  ocean,  he  might  well  feel  lifted  above  his 
ordinary  frame.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the  window 


THF    I'.AILIFF    OF    TF.WKF.SBURY.  179 

where  Dorothy,  in  the  full  prime  of  matronly 
beauty,  sat  with  her  three  fair-haired  boys,  and 
heard  the  joy  of  his  family  mingling  with  that  of 
his  friends  and  neighbors,  his  cup  of  happiness 
seemed  full.  But  Nemesis  was  on  his  track. 

Passing  beneath  the  baL-ony,  he  rose  in  his 
stirrups,  waving  his  hand  to  Dorothy;  and  as  he 
did  so,  a  gaunt,  fierce-eyed  figure  darted  through 
the  throng,  and  flashing  out  a  dagger,  struck  with 
all  his  force  at  the  Bailiff's  exposed  side. 

The  blow  was  well  aimed,  and  William  Helpes' 
triumph  had  ended  then  and  there  but  for  the 
elder  Welshman,  who,  as  we  have  said,  occupied  a 
position  just  beneath  Dame  Helpes'  window. 
Springing  forward,  he  caught  the  assassin's  wrist, 
so  far  parrying  the  thrust  that  it  only  left  a  slash 
in  the  Bailiff's  gown,  and  in  another  moment  had 
wrenched  the  knife  from  his  hand.  The  assailant, 
finding  himself  overpowered  and  disarmed,  writhed 
like  a  serpent  through  his  captor's  hold,  dived 
under  the  horse's  belly,  and  was  gone  in  an  in 
stant. 

Dorothy,  rising  from  her  place  with  a  shriek, 
was  about  to  rush  down. 

"  No  harm  —  no  harm,  dame!"  cried  Helpes, 
waving  her  back.  Turning  to  his  rescuer  he 
spoke  quickly  : 

"  I  thank  thee,  good  fellow  :  thou  hast  done  me 
the  best  service  man  can.  1  may  not  tarry  now 
—  come  see  me  to-night — here's  an  earnest  for 
thee." 

"  Hur  takes  no  gifts  from  the  Saxon,"  said  the 
Welsh  man,  proudly,  rejecting  tin-  proffered  money  : 
and,  drawing  his  cloak  round  him,  he  turned  away. 

"'Fellow'!  did  hur  say?"  exploded  the  atten 
dant,  who,  hemmed  in  bv  the  crowd,  had  not  at 


180  THE    1JA1LIKF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

first  been  able  to  reach  his  master.  "  Py  faith, 
Owen  ap  Gnaut  is  goot  gentlemans  as  stand  here, 
ay,  an  'twere  ta  Baily  hurself,  an  — 

"Chut,  tut,  Taw  —  no  more  worts,"  said  the 
superior,  adding  something  in  their  own  tongue 
which  reduced  his  follower  to  instant  silence. 

All  this  had  passed  so  quickly  that  few  were 
aware  of  what  had  happened.  The  slight  gap  in  the 
procession  was  speedily  closed  up,  and  the  Town 
Hall  soon  attained,  where  Helpes  went  through  the 
ceremonies  of  installation  with  a  coolness  which 
bespoke  the  strength  of  his  nerves. 

By  the  time  he  came  forth,  however,  the  news 
of  the  attempt  on  his  life  was  pretty  generally 
blown  abroad,  and  the  people's  solicitude  would 
not  be  pacified  until  he  had  ascended  the  market- 
cross,  and,  in  the  sight  of  all,  declared  himself 
sound  and  whole. 

The  tearful  anxiety  of  his  family  was  next  to  be 
soothed,  and  yielding  to  Dorothy's  entreaties,  he 
at  length  acquiesced  in  a  proposition  made  by  the 
captain  of  the  city  guard  —  namely,  that  sentinels 
should  be  stationed  around  his  house  during  the 
night.  Half  a  dozen  pikemen  were  accordingly 
told  off  for  this  purpose  ;  and  they  were  soon 
reinforced  by  a  host  of  volunteers  armed  with 
'clubs,  who  were  but  too  happy  in  the  opportu 
nity  of  signalizing  their  devotion. 

Torches  were  set  at  each  door,  and  renewed 
every  hour  or  two  ;  and  all  night  long  their  dim 
shifting  radiance  flashed  and  gleamed  upon  the 
soldiers'  armor,  and  faintly  illuminated  the  outer 
circle  of  townsfolk  who  kept  watch  and  ward  about 
Uie  new  made  Bailiff  of  Tewkesbury. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"The  winter  snow  and  hail  did  never  come  so  thick 
As  on  the  houses'  sides  the  bearded  arrows  stick." 

—  DKAYTON. 

IT  was  the  day  after  William  Helpes'  inaugura 
tion,  and  he  walked  with  his  old  friend  and  name 
sake  in  that  part  of  the  common  land  of  Tewkes- 
bury  known  as  the  "  Hloody  Meadow"  -  the 
scene  of  that  battle  which  gave  what  once  seemed 
the  final  blow  to  the  tottering  house  of  Lancaster. 

Shakespeare  had  intended  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremonies  of  installation,  but  his  purpose  had  been 
frustrated  by  deb.y  upon  the  road. 

"These  be  thy  times  of  reverence,"  said  he, 
"  thy  chair-days  will  come  anon." 

"Ay,  ay,"  assented  Helpes,  "We  have  both 
gray  in  our  beards,  Will  —  my  hair  is  grizzled, 
thine  is  gone.  What  then?  We  shall  all  grow 
old,  but  we  have  all  been  young." 

"A  good  heart's  worth  gold,"  said  the  poet; 
"but  thou  art.  happier  than  I  —  hast  sons  to  bear 
on  thy  name." 

"  And  thou  hast  a  n:;ir. .•  shall  bear  itself,  without 
an  help." 

"  Mnyhap  but  who  comes  here?  Thy  wife 
and  eldest  son,  is  't  not?  " 

"Thou'rt  right."  said  Helpes  with  affectionate 
annoyance.  "  The  foolish  heart  will  scarce  let  me 
out  of  her  sight  since  yesterday." 

Dorothy  came  up,  greeted  Shakespeare,  bidding 


1 82  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

her  boy  pay  his  respects,  and  then  clung  upon  her 
husband's  arm. 

"How  dost  thou,  old  Master  William?"  said 
Shakespeare,  using  the  epithet  the  boy's  early 
gravity  had  won  from  him,  and  taking  his  hand. 
"Wilt  be  a  Bailiff,  like  thy  father?" 

"  Nay,"  said  the  child,  positively.  "  I  will  be  a 
sailor  or  a  fanner." 

"  I  trust,"  said  the  mother,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears,  "  he  will  never  be  aught  that  will  place  him 
in  such  peril  as  his  father  hath  just  passed  through. 
Dost  know,  Master  Shakespeare,  the  knife  point 
broke  his  skin?  I  had  been  a  wretched  widow 
now,  but  for  yon  good  Welshman,  whom  none  can 
find,  though  William  hath  sent  notice  through  the 
town,  and  sought  him  far  and  near." 

"And  the  stabber,  —  canst  not  find  him 
neither?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Helpes.  "  Some  chased  him  near 
the  water  side,  and  there  they  lost  him ;  but  the 
warrant's  out  for  his  arrest.  He  hath  crossed  me 
once  or  twice  before  —  I  doubt  he's  partly 
crazed.  Tush,  'tis  nothing;  the  poor  knave 
thought  my  doublet  ill-fancied,  and  sought  to  slash 
it  after  the  newest  fashion." 

"Thou  shouldst  not  jest  thus,  William,"  said 
Dorothy,  with  a  half  sob. 

"  Come,  come,  sweet,"  said  her  husband,  look 
ing  on  her  with  eyes  where  she  still  saw  the  lover, 
"  take  it  not  so  to  heart  —  sure,  thou  hast  wept 
enough  for  two.  But  whom  see  I  yonder?  " 

A  white-haired,  tottering  old  man  was  slowly 
approaching  them.  Everything  about  him  showed 
that  he  had  arrived  at  the  extremes!  verge  of 
human  life.  With  a  stick  in  either  hand,  he 
travelled  like  some  heavy-footed  quadruped,  mov- 


THK     IIAII.U'T    OF    TF.WKKSIJUKV.  183 

ing  each  member  but  a  few  inches  at  a  time, 
looking  fixedly  on  the  ground,  and  seeming 
momentarily  on  the  point  of  falling  to  rise  no  more, 
while  the  bow  and  arrows  on  his  back  but  mocked 
his  feeble  form. 

"  One  of  the  bedesmen."  said  Dorothy,  as  the 
blue  gown  caught  her  eye.  "  Yes  —  if  I  see  aright, 
'tis  old  Hinckley." 

"  What,  doth  he  live  still?  He  was  old  when  I 
was  a  lad." 

"  Ay,  he  is  near  five-score.  He  can  still  see  and 
hear,  but  his  mind  plays  him  false  full  oft.  I  hear 
he  strays  out  on  sunny  days  like  this." 

The  ancient  had  now  drawn  quite  near  them. 

"Your  servant,  gentles,"  said  he,  trying  to  indi 
cate  a  bow.  "  Many  good  morrows  to  ye,  Master 
-  Master —  " 

"  Helpes,"  said  William,  depositing  rather  than 
interjecting  the  word. 

"Ay,  Master  Helpes;  or  I  crave  pardon,  my 
lord  :  they  tell  me  thou'rt  lord  o'  th'  town  now. 
I  bid  ye  joy,  if  an  owd  man  may  make  bold.  An' 
th'  same  to  my  lady  here  ;  1  mind  her  bonnie  face 
when  she  would  win  to  t'  bedehouse  wi'  my  poor 
young  suster  Annot,  as  died  unwedded  :  but  she 
comes  no  more  —  there's  none  to  think  on  t'  owd 
man  now  — 

"  I  was  there  but  a  sennight  since,"  said  Dor 
othy. 

"  But  for  sure,  lords  and  ladies  ha'  much  else  to 
mind  —  an'  t'  other  noble  gentleman,  an'  little 
master  here — my  duty  to  ye  all." 

"  Thanks,  old  friend,"  said  I  lelpes,  giving  him 
some  money.  "  Here's  for  thy  good  wishes.  I 
trust  they  make  thee  easy  where  them  art?" 

"Well  enov,   my  lord  —  thank    ye,   my   lord  — 


184  THE    13A1LIFF    OF     )'I.\VKI  S!,l  RV. 

poor  folk  mun  be  thankui,  ;  but  to  be  sure,  t' 
house  was  set  for  ovvel  failed  bodies  like  me ;  an' 
nowadays,  th'  way  they  let  in  stout  lads  o'  three 
score  an'  less,  'tis  a  shame  to  be  seen." 

"  And  how  old  art  thou,  friend?  " 

"  I'll  speak  ye  true,  my  lord  —  I'm  none  o' 
these  owd  knaves  that  mounch  on  lies  when  their 
teeth  be  gone  —  I'm  ninety-six  last  \\~hissuntide, 
as  ever  were." 

"  'Tis  a  great  age." 

"  Ay,  an'  my  feyther  were  aughteen  the  time  o' 
th'  gret  battle,  in  this  very  mead.  Your  honors  be 
scholars,  can  say  how  long  time  ago?" 

Bearing  the  Tewkesbury  Chronicle  in  mind, 
rather  than  these  very  imperfect  data,  Helpes  re 
plied,  "  An  hundred  and  thirty-six  years." 

"Ay,  an'  'twere  nigh  thretty  year  arter  that  when 
feyther  wedded  ;  'twere  long  or  he  found  a  maid 
could  bear  th'  sight  o'  th'  gash  on  's  face.  Will 
your  honors  be  pleased  to  hear  th'  tale  o'  th'  fight, 
as  he  towd  it  me  many  a  time?  " 

"  If  thou  hast  a  few  minutes,  spend  them  on 
him,  Will,"  whispered  Dorothy.  "  'Twill  do  him 
more  good  than  money  —  they  will  scarce  let  him 
ope  his  lips  at  the  bedehouse." 

Looking  at  Shakespeare,  and  receiving  his 
assent,  Helpes  replied,  "  We  shall  be  glad  to  hear 
thee,  friend." 

A  slight  flush  of  pleasure  came  to  the  old  man's 
face.  Quickly  stringing  his  bow,  and  handling  it 
as  he  spoke,  he  began  his  tide,  both  his  voice  and 
demeanor  gradually  growing  firmer  as  he  proceeded. 

"  An  't  please  your  honors,  my  feyther  were  Sir 
Folk  Bury's  man,  nigh  hand  here  —  th'  family's 
all  gone  down  now,  but  gret  lords  then.  An'  one 
eve  near  May-day,  as  feyther  came  fro'  th'  plow, 


THE     HAII.IFF    OF    TF.WKKS1SURY.  185 

an'  were  thinking  on  naught,  as  he  unyoked  his 
team,  but  o'  dancing  round  th'  May-pole  \vi'  the 
maid  he  loved  best,  up  sieps  th'  captain  o'  th' 
men-at-arms  fro'  th'  gret  house,  and  says  he, 
'  Jenkin,  be  ready  to  follow  us  at  sunrise  to-morrow, 
wi'  thy  harness,  weapons  and  provender.'  Feyther 
were  clear  maxed  ;  but  he  made  ready,  as  reason 
were,  an'  he  an'  th'  other  yeomen  marched  up  an' 
down  wi'  Sir  Folk  for  a  week  or  more,  an'  th' 
Queen  an'  th'  young  prince  joined  their  force.  At 
last  the  camp  were  set  by  this  mead,  an'  all  said 
there  would  be  a  sore  strife  on  th'  morrow. 

"  F  th'  morn  th'  false  king's  troops  came  up,  an' 
th'  trumpets  sounded,  an'  soon  th'  arrows  'gan  to 
fly.  Feyther  said  he  ne'er  saw  sleet  i'  winter 
thicker  than  th'  shafts  stuck  on  one  cottage  wall. 
A  troop  o'  horse  tried  twice  to  ride  down  th'  band 
o'  yeomen  where  he  stood,  an'  twice  they  failed. 
The  arrows  struck  through  shield  an'  mail,  an'  yon 
hollow  lane  were  filled  wi'  th'  riders,  like  a  rut  wi' 
stones.  At  last  their  shafts  were  spent,  an'  then 
th'  fag  o'  th'  horsemen  broke  in  on  them,  fiery- 
fierce.  Their  leader,  as  had  his  thigh  skewered 
wi'  one  o'  feyther's  arrows,  cut  him  down  wi's  axe, 
an'  left  him  for  dead. 

"  When  he  came  to,  some  one  were  rolling  him 
aside.  They  were  clearing  away  th'  bodies,  that 
lay  thick  as  swaths  o'  grass  e'er  did,  to  pitch  th' 
false  king's  tent.  Feyther  might  not  rise,  an'  he 
thought  'twere  better  to  hold  his  peace  than  have' 
a  dagger  sheathed  in  him.  They  set  up  th'  tent, 
an'  as  it  chanced,  he  lay  just  within  th'  edge,  an' 
might  see  all.  Th'  crook-backed  duke  an  's 
brother  came  in,  an'  bade  raise  a  throne.  Some 
empty  arrow  chests  were  piled  together,  an'  then 
a  cry  were  made,  '  1  lere's  his  majesty!'  an'  they 


1 86  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

lacked  a  step  to  th'  throne.  So  they  haled  in  a 
corpse,  an'  laid  it  in  place,  threw  broidered  cloths 
o'er  all,  an'  th'  false  king  came  an'  took  his  seat. 

"  '  Bring  in  the  prisoner  !  '   says  he. 

"An'  they  brought  him  in  —  that  were  the  true 
prince,  ye  mind  —  wi'  's  hands  bound,  but  as  bold 
as  a  lion.  There  he  stood  among  those  that 
dought  to  take  his  life,  an'  eyed  'em  all  as  they 
were  grooms  set  to  do  his  bidding. 

"  '  How  durst  ye  come  here  ?  What  do  ye  here  ?  ' 
says  th'  false  king  at  last ;  but  his  words  came 
thick,  an'  he  looked  aside. 

"  '  I  came  to  gain  my  father's  crown,  and  mine 
own  heritage,'  says  the  prince. 

"  He  ne'er  said  word  more.  Th'  other  flung  his 
glove  at  him,  an'  th'  crook-back  duke  an'  his 
brother  struck  their  daggers  in  his  side.  Down 

O™ 

he  fell,  just  by  where  my  sire  lay  :  here,  gentles  — 
this  is  feyther's  very  bow  —  see  ye  this  ruddy  spot 
near  th'  tip?  'Tis  a  gout  o'  th'  brave  young 
prince's  blood." 

All  drew  round  and  gazed  with  interest.  Old 
Hinckley  caught  his  breath  and  went  on. 

"  When  th'  night  fell,  feyther  crept  away  fro' 
th'  tent,  an'  hapt  on  a  house  where  they  cared  for 
him,  though  much  as  their  lives  were  worth. 
'Twas  many  a  day  or  he  drove  th'  plough  again  : 
but  at  last  he  got  back  to  th'  land,  and  there  I 
were  born.  When  a'  died,  a'  left  me  his  bow, 
an'  bid  me  be  always  ready  to  draw  it  for  th'  right. 
An'  I  ha'  drawn  it  for  owd  King  Hal  agen  th' 
rebels'  an'  for  th'  Queen  —  ay  —  th'  Red  Rose 
shall  ne'er  fade  —  ". 

Flushed  with  his  tale,  and  borne  up  by  the 
brief  strength  of  excitement,  the  old  man  had 
thrown  his  sticks  aside,  and  was  now  marching  up 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY  187 

and  down,  pausing  occasionally  and  making  futile 
efforts  to  draw  his  bow-string  home.  He  had 
rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  torn  open  his  collar, 
disclosing  his  yellow,  veiny  neck  and  arms. 

"Come,  Gaffer,"  said  Dorothy  coaxingly,  "'tis 
time  thou  went  home  to  thy  supper." 

But  he  gave  no  heed. 

"  Hinckley,"  said  Helpes,  in  the  sharp  tone  of 
command,  "  thou  must  not  stay  here  —  march  on." 

"  Ay,  my  lord, —  ay  !  "  cried  the  bedesman,  "  I 
know  my  duty  —  I'll  stand  guard  here —  none  can 
say  I  e'er  slept  on  my  post—  And  he  burst 
into  a  fit  of  excited  raving. 

"What  to  do?"  said  Dorothy.  "Sure,  he  will 
kill  himself." 

"  I  )ame,"  said  the  Bailiff,  "  Master  Shakespeare 
will  abide  with  us  to-night.  Take  him  home  and 
give  him  some  victual  —  he  hath  ridden  far.  And 
hark  ye,"  in  a  lower  tone,  "  send  up  two  of  the  lads 
from  the  house,  as  soon  as  may  be,  to  carry  this 
old  babbler  home." 

Dorothy  turned  away  with  Shakespeare  and  her 
little  boy,  her  mind  confused  between  pity,  appre 
hension,  and  hospitality. 

"  Master  Shakespeare,"  said  she  presently,  with 
an  effort  to  select  some  new  topic,  "those  sonnets 
whereof  William  showed  me  so  many  in  our  court 
ship —  didst  thou  indeed  write  them  all  upon 
him  ?  " 

"They  were  writ  for  their  only  begetter,  Mr.  W. 
IT.,"  replied  the  poet,  grave-ly  smiling;  nor  would 
he  say  more. 

Meanwhile  William  Helpes  remained  watching 
over  Hinckley  as  he  rambled  up  and  down,  en 
deavoring  to  soothe  him  into  a  more  amenable 
frame. 


i88 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 


"Yonder  were  where  feyther's  troop  were  set," 
cried  the  old  man,  "  there  came  th'  horsemen,  an' 
here — ay,  here,  my  lord,  stood  th'  false  king's 
tent." 

As  William  looked  down  on  the  deepest  dyed 
spot  of  the  Bloody  Meadow,  he  was  aware  of  a 
slight  movement  and  rustle  in  a  clump  of  bushes 
some  forty  yards  away.  Old  Hinckley  faced 
suddenly  round.  "  For  t'  prince  !  "  he  cried,  and 


laying  an  arrc'.v  in  place,  drew  it  to  the  head. 
The  thin  hard  sinews  flashed  out  like  harp  strings 
over  his  withered  arms  and  chest,  as  he  glanced 
along  th:  shaft,  and  then  let  it  fly.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  gazing  after  the  missile,  as  if  to  be  sure 
whether  it  had  found  the  mark,  then  dropped  on 
his  knees,  wavered  like  a  severed  stem,  and  with 
a  long  gasp  fell  forward  on  his  face.  The  two 
'prentices  now  appeared,  running  at  full  speed. 
"  Hither  !  This  way  !  "  cried  Helpes,  raising  the 


THE     I'.AII. n-T     01-     TFAVKKSUUKY.  189 

old   man's  head.     The  lads  came  up,  and  relieved 
their  master  :   but  life  was  evidently  extinct. 

"Take  him  to  the  next  house,  call  a  leech  — 
somewhat  may  yet  be  done,"  said  Helpes.  "  But 
soft  :  1  must  look  yonder  a  moment." 

He  walked  towards  the  tuft  of  bushes  where  the 
arrow  had  struck,  followed  by  two  or  three  strollers 
whom  the  bustle  had  attracted.  Half  concealed 
among  sallows  lay  the  body  of  a  man,  pierced  from 
breast  to  back  bv  Hinckley's  bolt. 

"  Why,  sure,"  cried  one  of  the  company,  "  'tis 
the  same  drew  a  knife  on  your  Honor  in  the  street 
yesterday  !  " 

"Ay,  I  know  him  now,"  murmured  Helpes, 
ga/ing  down  on  the  corpse. 

It  was  indeed  the  wretched  Tuff  —  his  features 
set  iii  despairing  rage,  and  the  loaded  pistol  and 
smoking  match  which,  lay  beside  him  proving  that 
the  old  archer's  arrow  had  just  anticipated  a  last 
effort  at  ver.geance. 

Other  citizens  now  came  up,  and  a  gate  being 
procured,  !xnh  bodies  were  laid  thereon,  and 
borne  towards  the  town. 

The  Ijaili.'t,  with  Hinckley's  bow  in  his  hand, 
walked  hastily  on  to  assure  Dorothy  of  his  safety  : 
but  as  usual,  the  news  had  flown  before,  and  she 
came  rushing  in  terror  to  meet  him. 

"  I  shall  never  rest  again  !   never  !  "   she   wailed. 

"Sooth,  sweetheart,"  said  her  husband,  "  I  think 
thou  mayst  be  easy  now.  Mine  only  enemy  is  gone 
—  I  have  'scaped  him  once  more,  thanks  to  the 
bedesman,  or  rather,"  raising  his  hat  and  looking 
upward,  "  where  they  are  more  justly  due.  lioth 
these  bodies  shall  have  decent  burial,  and  I  will 
beat  charge  for  a  headstone  for  old  Hinckley  — 
he  died  in  harness.  Methinks  I  may  keep  his 


190  THE    BAILIFF    OF   TEWKESRURY. 

bow  —  he  had  no  heir  living,  and  many  have  heard 
him  say  I  should  have  it  when  he  was  gone.  Now, 
Doll,  let  us  sup." 

Danger  and  violence,  once  past,  left  no  long 
impression  on  the  minds  of  that  day  :  and  after 
the  feast  Helpes  and  his  guest  were  merry  over 
their  wine,  and  "old  Master  William"  heard  for 
the  first  time  some  tales  of  his  sire's  exploits  in 
Charlecote  Park. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  And  when  life's  sweet  fable  ends, 
Soul  and  body  part  like  friends." 

—  RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

NEARLY  a  score  of  years  had  elapsed  since 
Hinckley  and  Tuff  had  been  laid  in  their  graves, 
the  smooth  and  easy  reign  of  James  was  over,  and 
King  Charles  sat  firm  in  his  place. 

It  was  late  spring,  and  the  Avon  had  been  up  in 
spate  ;  many  a  fair  field  was  buried  deep  in  mud, 
drowned  cattle  and  sheep  lay  against  the  hedge 
rows,  and  more  homesteads  than  one  were  in 


ruins.  The  stream  was  now  slowly  contracting 
into  its  accustomed  channel,  but  its  usually  clear 
waters  were  turbid  and  brown,  while  thousands  of 
little  affluents  seemed  bearing  to  it  the  very  life 
blood  of  the  land. 

On  the  bank  stood  two  farmers,  comparing  notes 
as  to  their  losses. 

"  'Tis  a  sorry  sight,   Higg,"    said   the  younger. 

193 


I92  THE    BA1UFF    OF    TEWKESBURY. 

"Look  on  t'  meads  an'  hedges,  coated  with  mud, 
as  a  brown  snow  had  fell." 

"  T'  grass  will  grow  all  t'  better,  Trinlay,  soon 
or  late.  Thou  knowest  t'  owd  say  : 

'  When  Severn  seeks  Avon, 
There's  hay  for  the  havin', 

When  Avon  seeks  Severn, 
The  corn  grows  to  heaven.'  " 

"  Ay,  hay  enow,  I'll  go  bail,"  grumbled  Trinlay  ; 
"  an'  few  mouths  to  put  it  in.  I  ha'  lost  nine  shar- 
rags,  three  lambs  —  most  o'  them  were  folded  on 
hill — an'  a  fine  calf.  A  worser  flood  I  ne'er  saw. 
Feyther  would  tell  as  how  it  came  to  yon  stone  in 
his  time,  a  foot  higher  than  this ;  but  I  n'ot  to  see 
't." 

"They  do  say,"  observed  Higg,  sinking  his 
voice  to  a  whisper,  '•  as  there've  been  a  ban  on 
Avon  flow  ever  sin'  good  Master  Wyclif's  ashes  were 
sent  down  't  ;  an'  yon  barn  fallen,  were  my  share 
o'  loss." 

"  Were  't  in  that  Master  Helpes  got 's  hurt?  " 

"  Nay —  at  neebor  Jackson's.  He  were  up  to  's 
belt  in  water,  tryin'  to  free  some  o'  th'  beasts, 
when  a  bulk  o'  timber  struck  him  o'  th'  spole  an' 
bore  him  under.  He  were  up  in  a  breath,  but 
they  say  as  he  were  done  for  then.  He's  sinkin' 
fast,  same  as  th'  stream.  I  ha'  sent  my  little  lad  up 
this  morn,  to  see  what  the  word  may  be,  an'  that's 
what  I'd  do  for  few  townsmen." 

"Ay,  there's  many  without  Tewkesbury  'ud 
grieve  for  him.  But  I  mun  take  a  shovel  in  hand, 
an  fy  out  some  o'  th'  ditches." 

As  Higg  had  said,  William  Helpes,  in  his  efforts 
to  aid  the  sufferers,  had  received  some  injuries 
which,  little  noticed  at  first,  were  tending  to  a  fatal 
termination. 


THi:    I'.AII.II'T    OF    TKWKFSP.l'RY.  193 

Round  his  door  stood  messengers  from  all  parts 
of  the  town,  waiting  in  ever  lessening  hope  :  and 
when  at  length  the  doctor  came  forth,  saying  he 
could  do  no  more,  a  burst  of  lamentation  rose 
from  the  women,  while  more  than  one  sturdy 
fellow,  uho  had  not  wept  since  he  could  see  across 
a  table,  followed  their  example. 

Within  the  sick  man  lay  among  his  pillows,  the 
minister  at  the  bed  foot,  and  his  younger  sons, 
George  and  Richard,  on  either  side. 

"  Hath  not  Will  come  yet?"  he  asked  feebly. 

"  Xay,  father  ;  he  hath  been  sent  for  with  all 
haste  ;  but  thou  knowest  his  farm  is  far  hence." 

"  He  must  come  soon  an'  he  would  see  me. 
Look  ye,  Dick,  yesterday  I  flattened  yon  pewter 
cup  in  one  hand  —  now  I  can  scarce  lift  it." 

Another  hour  wore  slowly  away.  Then  the 
tramp  of  a  horse  was  heard  without,  and  the  eldest 
son  enured,  splashed  and  stained  with  clay  from 
head  to  heel. 

The  first  greetings  over,  the  father  motioned 
all  to  stand  before  him,  and  then  looked  around 
as  if  in  search  of  someone  else. 

"Where  is  he?  " 

"  Whom,  father?  " 

"Mine  old  fellow  —  Will  Shakespeare.  Tush, 
I  forget  ;  he  hath  lain  in  Stratford  church  this  ten 
year." 

A  little  cordial  was  given  him,  and  he  went  on 
with  clearer  voice  and  thought. 

"  I  reckoned  to  live  many  a  year  yet,  lads  — 
but  'tis  as  well  —  the  salt  has  gone  from  life  since 
your  mother  passed  ;  I  trust  I  am  ready.  For  worldly 
gear  —  Will,  thou  hast  the  land,  and  George  the 
business,  and  Dick,  a  portion  may  keep  him  well. 
Thou  shalt  have  yon  bow,  Will ;  remember, 


^94  THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKF.SBURY. 

Shakespeare  bent  it  once,  and  it  hath  saved  thy 
father's  life.  And  further,  here  be  three  nots,  one 
apiece.  Seek  not  too  eagerly  for  gold  —  it  leaveth 
all  its  rust  in  the  heart  of  man.  Spare  not,  in  a 
good  cause,  nor  purse,  nor  strength,  nor  pain,  nor 
life.  And  lastly,  fear  not.  This  is  no  place  for 
boasting,  yet  few  there  be  have  seen  my  back  in 
strife.  But  none  knoweth  how  oft  a  man  hath 
failed,  save  he  himself :  and  truly  I  may  say,  never 
did  I  turn  from  peril,  but  I  rued  it  sorely.  A 
faint  heart  undoes  all.  In  the  front  of  yonder 
Book  ye  may  read  how  Adam's  first  word  after  he 
fell  was  a  dastard  speech  ;  and  at  its  end,  foremost 
among  those  who  may  not  enter  heaven  are  named 
the  cowards.  Fear  is  not  meant  for  man — give 
all  ye  have  on  't  to  God  — keep  none  back." 

He  paused,  joined  the  minister  awhile  in  prayer, 
then  lay  back  exhausted,  and  sank  gradually  into 
stupor. 

Minute  after  minute  passed  away,  while  the 
white  shadow  grew  upon  his  face.  At  last  he  be 
gan  groping  feebly  upon  the  blankets. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  murmured,  "  Dorothy  —  gift  of 
God  —  where  art  thou?  Thy  hand — bring  me 
to  the  light." 

All  present  fell  on  their  knees,  as  the  pastor 
began  the  commendatory  prayer. 

Soon  a  sobbing  messenger  sped  away  toward 
the  church,  and  ere  long  three  score  and  six  strokes 
of  the  bell  told  Tewkesbury  that  the  stout  burgess' 
soul  had  passed. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

"  C'ras  ingens  iterahimus  it-quor." 

HORACE. 

IT  was  a  cold,  blustering  morning.  The  long 
black  bar  of  cloud  which  lay  on  the  eastern' 
horizon  turned  no  golden  edge  toward  the  world, 
nor  gave  a  hint  of  the  light  it  concealed,  until  the 
sun  pushed  slowly  upward,  and  announced  the 
twentieth  of  March,  1630. 

The  good  ship  "  Mary  and  John/'  Captain  John 
Squeb,  master,  lay  at  anchor  in  Plymouth  harbor, 
pointing  her  bow  to  the  northerly  bree/.e,  and 
gently  rocking  on  the  waves  ;  while  far  away  to 
the  south  a  spot  of  foam  marked  the  reefs  which, 
seventy  years  later,  were  to  bear  up  the  Kddystone 
lighthouse. 

The  pilot,  temporary  master  of  the  vessel,  stood 
in  solitary  greatness  near  the  helm,  and  Cap 
tain  Squeb,  for  the  nonce  a  mere  supercargo, 
chatted  affably  with  the  passengers  and  visitors. 

"Ay,  ay;  'tis  a  fair  wind  at  last;  we  sail  this 
day  without  doubt,  Master  Davon.  Thou'lt  be 
glad  to  know  we  have  two  worshipful  ministers 
aboard,  goodwife  Fullafere.  Master  Clap,  I.  hear 
'tis  thy  purpose  to  write  a  story  of  the  voyage; 
fail  not  to  speak  a  good  word  for  the  tight  craft." 

"An  't  please  you,  Master  Squeb,  when  set  we 
forth?"  asked  one  of  the  men. 

"  'Tis  (1(30(1  an  hour  ere  noon  ;  then  we  weigh 
anchor." 

"And,  by  your  leave,  are  all  on  board?  " 


196  THE    li.ULIFF   OF    TEWKESBURV. 

"  Nay,  one  company  is  yet  to  come.  But  if 
they  wait  four  hours  more  they  shall  find  an  empty 
berth.  Stay,  methinks  I  see  them  now." 

A  sm:;ll  boat  so  crowded  with  passengers  that 
the  rowers  could  scarce  v.r.c  their  oars,  pushed  off 
from  shore,  and  slowly  approached  the  "  Mary 
and  John." 

"  Help's  good  in  time  of  need,"  jested  the 
Captain,  "and  here  be  seven,  what  think  ye  o' 
that?" 

The  wherry  pulled  up  t:)  the  ship's  side,  made 
fast,  and  three  children  were  handed  up  one 
after  the  other. 

"  Poor  little  maids,"'  said  a  compassionate 
woman,  "1  pity  them,  thus  thrust  into  the  wilder 
ness." 

Dame  Helpes  was  next  assisted  up  the  ladder, 
and  was  followed  by  her  husband  William  —  the 
same  whom  we  saw  in  Tewkesbury  mead  as  a  child 
of  eight.  He  was  now  nearly  thirty-five,  but  his 
thinning  hair,  hollow  cheeks,  and  grave  demeanor 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  being  much  older; 
while,  though  of  a  tough  and  wiry  build,  he  evi 
dently  had  not  inherited  all  his  sire's  strength. 

The  two  unmarried  brothers,  George  and 
Richard  Helpes,  reached  over  a  collection  of  small 
articles  (conspicuous  among  which  were  an  ancient 
long-bow  and  a  brass  warming-pan)  and  then  as 
cended  themselves. 

"The  settlers,"  said  Captain  Squeb,  speaking 
apart,  but  quite  loudly  enough  to  be  heard,  "  bid 
me  bring  them  o'er  a  cargo  of  hoes  and  spades, 
and  instead  I  fetch  the  vessel  loaded  with  Helpeses 
as  deep  as  she  can  swim." 

William's  wife  and  children  soon  went  below, 
but  the  three  brothers  remained  conversing  on  deck. 


THI-:    i;. UNIT  OK  TKAVKKSWRV.  197 

"Truly  our  course  seems  set  for  the  West  at 
last,''  said  the  eldest.  "  I  hear  there  remaineth 
yet  very  much  land  to  be  possessed,  and  I  would 
fain  have  a  share  therein.  Thou  knowest,  ( ieorge, 
my  taste  is  for  the  fields,  as  thine  for  trade  ;  but  I 
like  not  to  be  cap  in  hand  to  lord  and  duke,  for 
lease  and  feu  —  1  seek  to  sit  upon  mine  own  ground, 
as  well  as  under  mine  own  vine  and  fig-tree.'' 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  (ieorge,  '•  thy  foot  on  the  land, 
and  a  book  in  thy  hand  —  'tis  ever  thy  way,  Will. 
For  me,  I  had  never  stirred,  were  the  business 
now  as  in  our  father's  time  ;  but  1  see  'tis  drift 
ing  away  from  poor  Tewkesbury,  and  a  wise  man 
will  sell  out  while  he  may.  1  have  scraped  to 
gether  some  few  score  pounds,  which  1  trust  to 
turn  over  at  profit  in  the  Colonies  :  1  hear  they 
have  ma/iy  saints  there,  but  few  angels." 

"Thy  jest,  (Ieorge,''  said  William  gravely, 
"savors  of  certain  superstitions,  which  I  hope  we 
have  escaped  for  ever  —  but  let  it  pas...  An  we 
believed  in  omens,  doth  not  all  seem  to  favor  us? 
The  season  is  prosperous,  the  sky  is  clear,  and  we 
shall  be  speedilv  borne  down  the  Channel  by  this 
gallant  bree/.e." 

'•'"1'is  something  of  the  keenest,"  remarked 
Richard,  the  youngest  brother,  pulling  up  his 
collar,  and  ga/ing  apprehensively  out  to  sea.  "  I' 
faith,  1  like  not  all  this  salty  drink  :  a  good  pot 
of  ale  by  a  snug  fireside  is  liquor  enow  for  me.  I 
heard  marvellous  t",les  of  the  salvages'  cruelty  in 
the  tavern  last  night — we  shall  do  well  to  overlive 
ten  years.  Marry,  I  had  thriven  better  to  abide 
by  my  Knglish  luck  :  but  I  was  over-persuaded, 
like  m:my  another,  and  must  now  suffer  tor  "t." 

"  Brother  Richard."  said  William,  turning  to  him 
in  some  heat,  "this  discourse  profiteth  not  at  all. 


198 


THE    BAILIFF    OF    TEWKESKURV. 


Over-persuaded  ?  Did  I  not  lay  all  before  thee, 
and  tell  thee  to  count  the  cost,  and  that  if  thou 
wert  minded  to  stay  behird  I  would  make  over  the 
leases  thou  wot'st  of,  and  put  thee  in  a  fair  way  of 
life?  And  didst  thou  not  thump  stoutly  on  thy 
breast,  and  avouch  that  all  thy  hopes  lay  in  Amer 
ica,  and  that  thou  wouldst  swim  thither,  if  it  might 


not  otherwise  be  reached  ?  This  is  no  valley  of 
Moreh,  Richard,  from  the  which  thou  mayest  turn 
back  like  one  of  Gideon's  ten  thousand ;  neither, 
Richard,  I  must  needs  say,  is  an  infirm  purpose 
made  stronger  by  backing  it  with  '  marry '  and 
'i'  faith.'  " 

Richard    thrust    both    hands     deeply    into    his 
pockets,  and  humming  a  tune,  went  under  hatches. 


THF,    KAII.IFK    OK    TKAVKKSHURY.  199 

William,  looking  somewhat  ashamed  of  his  easy 
victory,  began  walking  up  and  down  the  small, 
clear  space  he  could  find  on  deck.  Soon  the 
mournful  chant  of  the  sailors  was  heard,  as  they 
swung  the  anchor  loose  from  English  soil.  The 
foresail  was  spread,  and  the  bark,  veering  slowly 
round,  ploughed  her  way  toward  the  harbor  mouth, 
both  waves  and  prospects  widening  as  she  went. 

"  If  thou'lt  be  guided,  Master  Helpes,"  said  the 
Captain  as  he  passed  them,  in  a  tone  already  more 
authoritative,  "go  below,  and  stow  thy  stuff — we 
are  rarely  cumbered  wi'  't,  and  two  hours  hence 
them  mayest  have  small  heart  for  heaving  of  chests." 

Obeying  this  injunction,  the  brothers  went  be 
low,  where  they  were  long  occupied  in  prepara 
tions  for  their  ten  weeks'  voyage. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  when  William  Helpes  came 
again  on  deck.  Despite  the  Captain's  presage, 
though  now  at  sea  for  the  first  time,  he  experienced 
none  of  the  ills  which  assail  most  novices  in  that 
position,  and  verified  the  boast  of  his  youth,  that 
he  would  be  sailor  it  not  farmer. 

The  vessel,  a  fair  wind  on  her  quarter,  was 
speeding  down  the  Channel,  and  the  pilot-boat 
was  already  a  dim  speck  in  the  distance  ;  while 
the  British  coa^t,  faint  and  blue  across  the  tumbling 
water,  seemed  like  a  shapeless,  impenetrable  cloud, 
which  knew  not  port,  or  river,  or  home  of  man. 
A  few  distant  toiling  sails  were  the  only  bright 
spots  within  the  (.'migrant's  vision. 

Behind  him  lay  the  graves  of  his  parents,  be 
fore  him  the  land  which  was  to  be  the  birthplace 
of  his  son.  Balanced  betwixt  hope  and  memory, 
he  stood  gaxing  eastward  until  the  last  gleam  of 
daylight  had  died  away,  and  Shakespeare's  Kng- 
land  laded  forever  from  his  si<rht. 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S. 


CAT.    NO.   24    161 


000  591  365     2 


